Close Encounters 3:5
by chezchuckles
Summary: AU: Beckett recovers at the CIA's rehab facility in Stone Farm. It is entirely necessary to have read CE 1-3 to understand this.
1. Chapter 1

**Close Encounters 3.5**

* * *

She sat on the floor in the kitchen of Stone Farm, her body listing against the window and her skin soaking in the sunlight. She had her eyes closed when she sensed him hovering.

"What." She'd been pushing him out of her space all day, so tired of being tired. Helpless. So tired of him having to hold her up.

"I have to leave," he said quietly.

She fluttered her eyes open, all too aware of the risk he took leaving this place. Black had told her. Black had warned her. Castle couldn't leave. Not now. "No."

"I have to," he said again and moved as if to walk away.

She tried to get her feet under her and couldn't, let out an involuntary gasp as her back pulled, felt herself fall against the bulletproof windowpanes. He must have heard her grunt, because he turned around and came back to her, brought her to a kitchen chair.

She jerked her head away from the caress of his touch. "Don't leave."

"There's something I have to do. To keep you safe."

"Don't," she said, and she knew she was that close to begging.

He reached out to stroke her hair behind her ear and she sucked in a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

"Stay with me," she whispered, hating herself for saying it, hating the words, hating him for putting her in this position.

"I have to do this. Maddox is still out there."

"Exactly why you shouldn't," she whispered back, but she couldn't hold him.

And he left.

* * *

She was so damn tired of his careful, asexual touches. So tired of needing him so she could bathe, needing him so she could eat, needing him to pick her up.

And then he'd left. And now-

So tired of worrying.

Three days.

So tired of trying so hard and still failing, alone and failing.

Beckett took another slow loop around the property and mentally assessed her options again. Her weapon was gone, but she knew where to find one here. She could hotwire the truck that Logan drove out for supplies.

Could she stay upright long enough to find him though? Wherever he might be.

Castle.

Fuck.

She rounded the barn and cried out as she stumbled into a man, sprawled hard on her ass when she couldn't manage to catch herself. Her back flared brightly and she felt the skin stretching beyond its capacity.

She breathed through it, rolled slowly to her side and used her elbow to lever herself up.

When she opened her eyes again, Special Agent Black was standing two feet away. Watching her.

"I asked you to do one thing," he said.

She put a hand to the dirt track outside the barn and bowed her head to hide the agony on her face. She shoved and managed to push to her feet, breathless and dizzy and in excruciating pain.

"One thing, Beckett. You couldn't manage to keep him here?"

She kept her mouth shut, not because she was going for stoic and strong, but because she was simply going for _not throwing up all over him._

She was going to faint.

"He killed Maddox," Black said finally. "About three hours ago. For you."

She felt the wild thrashing of her heart and she didn't know for what - that Maddox was dead, thank God, or that Castle had done it and was alive.

Black stepped in closer and regarded her with cold, lifeless eyes. "Three men were killed in that operation. Three of my mine. Their blood stains his hands."

Her fingers went numb, the chill pushing up towards her chest. "Three," she repeated.

"For. You," Black said slowly. "Let their lives be on your head as well."

And then he turned and left her there.

* * *

When Castle made it back to Stone Farm, he couldn't find Beckett.

Good for now. He needed to clean up.

He ignored Ragle's raised eyebrow at his clothes and general appearance, moved towards the long hall back to their bedroom. He still had blood under his nails, staining his shirt, smeared at his neck.

Eastman.

He growled to himself and ran a hand through his already-grimy hair, realized he felt pieces of skull, grey matter in the strands.

Fuck. He needed a shower.

He was freezing cold; his skin crawled with goose flesh. He needed to find Beckett, tell her Maddox-

He sucked in a breath and felt his knees giving way, grabbed the open doorway for balance, swayed there a moment.

Suddenly a commotion from the sitting room: earnest and low voices, Ragle's easy to pick out for its sonorous tones, the note of controlled worry.

Castle turned around and came back, feet heavy. He caught Ragle having an earnest conversation with the stablemaster and inwardly, Castle cringed.

"She took a horse, didn't she?" he said, felt his fingers twitching at his side. He'd left her for three days; what did he expect?

Ragle turned to look at him and sighed. "She took a horse."

* * *

The noise alerted him first. It was dark now, long dark, and the trees were close on every side, crowding out all his other thoughts. He heard the animal sounds of distress and nearly dismissed it as a coyote with its unfortunate prey, but he found his feet taking him inexorably closer.

He came upon her in the woods, collapsed on her elbows and one hip, one knee, sobbing through every attempt to catch her breath and dry-heaving on every exhale. Even as she tried to rise.

Castle stood rooted to the spot, a wash of heavy horror that made him incapable of movement, and then when he saw the blood in the beam of his flashlight, he ran for her.

She couldn't even push him away. She'd mounted the damn horse, and she'd fallen off, and who knew what else. Her face was criss-crossed with scratches, her hands scraped raw, and she was practically lying in her own vomit. The blood bloomed bright at the back of her shirt.

Castle dragged her away from the mess until he could get his arm under her knees, the back of her neck, and he lifted her up. It was entirely too easy; she'd lost weight and she didn't seem sensible enough to fight him.

"I told you," he growled, but it was to push back his own tears, unable to get a grip on himself. "I told you to take it easy. To _wait._"

She couldn't even catch her breath to curse him; she had a brutal grip on his shirt, had taken skin with it, and her body spasmed with anguish. He didn't know whether to carry her back or stop and triage her here, hopefully wait for the pain to subside. After another three feet in which she cried out with every step, gasping and mewling, he put her down again.

She scratched her fingers into the earth, tore more than a couple nails bringing up dirt, and he pulled her side against his chest, carefully eased up her shirt to look.

The last row of stitches, the biggest ones, were gaping and bleeding now, the skin inflamed. She was still weeping uncontrollably, her hands in those desperate fists, and he was so pissed off at her, so fucking angry with her for doing this that he might strangle her now that he'd found her.

"Fuck," she groaned, her teeth clenched around the words. "Fuck, just leave. Leave me alone."

"You damn foolish woman. What the hell are you trying to do?" he growled back, his throat raw with tears. He kept her shirt away from the open wound and tried to keep her body from twisting in the dirt in a rictus of agony.

She beat her fists at him, but he wasn't sure she even knew she was doing it. Her sobs grew strangled and furious, her body convulsing in misery, and the blood still leaked from her back in a slow and ominous stream.

Finally, Castle yanked his jacket off and then stripped off his shirt, pressed the mostly clean cotton to her bleeding back. She screamed and jerked, but he held her down, kept the blood staunched as best he could, her spine against his thighs and his arm tight around her upper shoulders.

He had to. He had to.

"Beckett," he called, trying to get to her through the torture of the reopened wound. "Beckett, come on. Come on. I need to get you back so they can stitch you up again. Beckett. Kate."

As the blood began to thicken, her shaking stopped. She had her fists pressed to her eyes like she was trying to collapse the sockets, but the tears streamed down her cheeks unceasingly. He felt his chest tightening, his throat closing up, and he gripped her wrists, pulled her hands away from her eyes.

"Oh God, kill me," she gasped. "Fuck, fuck I can't. I can't. Just kill me and have it be done."

He choked on a breath and the damn tears really were clawing their way out now, streaking down his own face, running into the dip in his chin where the scar took out a chunk and collecting under his neck.

She closed her eyes.

_Eastman._

Kate.

* * *

When they let him in after the surgeon was through, she was crying. Fat tears that rolled back and into her hair, her ears, and she was grinding her teeth to stop them.

Castle dropped down to the floor beside the bed, leaned his head back against the side, closed his eyes. He listened to the mewling noise she made when she breathed out, timed the sucked-in, gasping inhalations.

He couldn't take it anymore.

"In Marrakesh," he started.

She groaned, the end of it tailing off into a whine.

"There was this woman-"

"The fuck I want to hear about the women you've had." She growled and he could feel the table rock, but she still couldn't move to get up. The surgeon had said she'd refused a local anesthetic, and he had no idea why. He couldn't fathom why she'd done any of this, but he knew beating her up about it wasn't the way to make her see reason.

"Well, you're not going anywhere," he said. "And I didn't _have_ her."

Silence from overhead meant she was at least not interrupting. He felt her hand in a fist at the bed, right behind his head, and he concentrated on that.

"Marrakesh is gorgeous. Exotic. Exactly what I'd hoped to find on my first assignment fresh from the Farm. The real Farm, Beckett, not our rehab facility here."

"I know what the damn Farm is."

"I was 21," he continued. "And Black had hand-picked me for this assignment."

He paused to let her comment, but she had less strength that he'd thought. No potshot at his father meant she was focused deeply inward on that inviolate core of her being, the place he'd still been unable to find, let alone touch.

"In Marrakesh, there was a plot to fix the election for governor."

"Why should the CIA care?"

"I can't tell you that."

"Shit," she groaned and then panted quick, shallow breaths back in. He listened for a moment, waiting to make sure she still had a handle on it, and then he traced the thread of his story again.

"A lot of this involved computer hacking skills and satellite transmissions and things the boys back at home were involved with, but there's always a need for dirty work."

"You?"

"Me. I do the dirty work. Marrakesh is a three-party system, and I had to break into the headquarters of what was then a minority party. Quick in and out, supposedly."

"Went wrong?" she said, and he heard the rattle of her breathing around the question, the ragged edge of her tears.

He wouldn't look at her until she was under control again; they had a kind of unspoken deal. He didn't acknowledge her frustrated and anguished weeping and she no longer begged him to leave her.

"It went wrong," he said finally. "I was shot on extraction, missed my rendezvous. Crawled to the Jemaa el-Fnaa, which is one of the most famous market squares in all of Africa - a massive center of trade but also all kinds of illegal activity. In fact, the name - roughly translated - means assembly of miscreants. Or trespassers, depending on how you read it."

She snorted at that, and he felt the back of her hand loosen against his head.

"In the far distant past, the square was used for executions. I felt it was a fitting place to bleed out."

"You didn't die," she grunted.

"No. It was - like a carnival. Snake charmers, herb sellers, story-tellers, dentists, acrobats, magicians, goods-sellers, dancing monkeys - a riot of color and a flood of languages. The market is a honeycomb, Beckett. Every stall and shop and kiosk and store-front leads on to another and another and another. A souk. It's dizzying and overwhelming and it swallows you up."

He felt her fingers uncurl and touch the back of his head. He kept his eyes closed to remember.

"She found me inside Souk Ableuh - a mini-market of connected shops all specializing in olives. I think there was something about the smell and the color - I couldn't tell you now why, but I literally fell at her feet."

"Castle," she groaned. "I don't - I can't-"

"She sold pickles and mint. She put some kind of concoction of the two on my side and wouldn't tell me her name. I thought it was Asni, but it turned out later that was the name of a nearby mountain town. She nearly killed me with that potion, called herself a magician."

He fell silent and slowly her fingers slid through his hair, over and over, rhythmic and soothing to them both.

"She was beautiful," he admitted. "But I was delirious with blood loss and unable to take another step. She put me on a camel and dumped me in front of the Australian consulate. They shipped me home after treating me for blood poisoning and the gunshot wound."

Her fingers scraped at his scalp and he heard her breathing - shaky but consistent - over his head. He closed his eyes and could smell the souk, the pungent olives and the pickled mint burning the skin just over his hipbone. It'd felt like he'd been napalmed.

He cleared his throat. "Sometimes we do things that we think will help. We put pickles and mint on a gunshot wound and we ship each other to the Australian consulate. We think we're doing the right thing."

_But we're not. We're not doing the right things for each other._

"I know that scar," she murmured finally.

"You've kissed that scar," he reminded her. "I nearly died that day."

"So did I," she sighed.

He opened his eyes and rose to his knees, turned around to take her by the hand. She was watching him, the tears stained on her skin but no longer flooding her eyes. He hooked an arm behind her neck and pulled her upright.

"I'm so tired," she murmured, and her eyelashes fluttered shut.

"Me too," he admitted.


	2. Chapter 2

**Close Encounters 3.5**

* * *

She could barely sense anything other than the pulsing heat of agony, but Castle-

Castle was there, and he held her up.

Beckett walked each of the thirty steps back to their room and collapsed onto the bed, let him arrange the covers over her, then snagged his fingers when he made to leave.

"In with me," she murmured, her heart catching on her ribs.

He nodded but only hovered over her on his hands and knees, a soft kiss to her cheek that made the tears spill over once more, but she swiped at them with her fingers and he sighed.

"I don't want to hurt your back-"

"I don't care." She needed him to stay and she was weak enough to admit it.

"I should shower first."

"This first. Please."

He wordlessly gave in, curled up at her back with his arms around her and his forehead pressed into her neck, his breathing fast and quick. She twined her arm with his and brought it up against her chest, kissing his fingertips, tasting blood. She felt the way her back flared at the initial press of his body, but after a moment, it seemed to be the only thing actually holding her together.

He smelled. He was right; he needed a shower. But she needed this too, having him here. Not dead.

He killed Maddox.

His words were a murmur in her hair. "Do you really. . ."

She took in a shallow breath and let it out again, knew he could feel it against his palm. Her nose was beginning to warm up.

"You don't really want to die, Beckett. Do you?"

She shivered and hunched her shoulders, drew him closer. "It just. . .hurt. A lot."

"Understatement of the year," he muttered, but he sounded lighter, like he could take a deep breath again. "Shit, Beckett. What the hell were you doing out there?"

"Trying to get better," she growled, but it pulled at her chest in a way that made her hurt and she had to shut up and breathe through it, her fingers tightening in his. "To find you," she admitted at last.

He shifted forward a little more, almost draped around her now, and the pressure of him at her back both hurt and comforted. Pleasure and pain. Metaphor for their relationship.

"Find me," he sighed, like he had no idea what that meant. "There's a program for getting better, Beckett; stick to the program."

"Programs don't work for me. And the physical therapist leaves me - fucking weak and broken. And I'm so tired of it, so tired of being _tired_ and not able to move and needing help."

"That's just how it is for now," he murmured at her shoulder, so close to the stitches that she felt the stirring of her skin orienting towards pain. "Kate, love, that's just how this goes. You got shot. You've been shot before."

"But I never-" She choked off and closed her eyes, sucked in a shallow breath that did nothing to keep back tears.

"You never what?" he said quietly.

And if it weren't for the way he was holding her together, keeping her sane, she'd never have answered.

"I never had someone need me before," she finished. "Someone I needed too. Partners."

His arms clenched tighter and she felt his teeth press into her spine, mouth open on a word he couldn't say or a cry she couldn't hear.

"Castle."

"I'm glad. . .glad you weren't there."

"What happened?" she said back. She shivered at his silence, tried to tug him closer even though it hurt. "Castle. Tell me."

She already knew but-

"Eastman is dead. I killed Maddox."

* * *

She turned in his arms and he closed his eyes to keep her from seeing it, felt her fingers at his cheeks.

"Castle. Oh, God."

He swallowed hard and fought to suppress it, but her fingers were too gentle, her voice too soft, her body so good and warm and alive against his. She nudged in closer, her mouth at his chin, his lips, the corner of his eye.

"Were you crying?" she breathed out.

Fuck.

She touched her tongue to his skin and he shivered.

"I can taste it. The salt. Castle, oh, I am so sorry. I am so sorry." She was curling her arms around his neck and shoulders, tugging him into her, and he went if only to hide his face.

"Hurting you," he muttered, his fingers at her hips, the flare of her bones under skin.

"Not enough to stop," she said back. "This is all my fault. I never-"

"It wasn't you. Maddox - he - I shot him. It's his - I need a shower." But he couldn't move to save his life, not when her body was so warm and pliant under his, her hands caressing his cheeks, her knee curled up as if to cradle him. He had to be hurting her.

"Eastman. Was that - do you know his real name?"

"That is - was - it is Eastman. Mark. I don't know. Shit," he growled, saw again the man on his back, blood pooling, the helpless way his hand had flopped against the roof like a fish out of water. Castle had taken cover behind the air conditioning unit but Eastman hadn't made it.

"He was your family," she whispered, her mouth at his temple. God, he'd missed her. He ached for her.

"Yeah," he gruffed against her chest, tried to get himself under control. "He was like - a brother, an uncle. I don't know."

"Tell me what happened."

"Maddox had a hotel room, was looking for Smith, I think. Me, Eastman, and some guys were in the room, searching through it when he came back. Got the drop on us."

He felt her shiver and tried to pull away but she came with him, settled over his chest. He tilted his head back and tried not to see it, tried to just quote his report.

"Eastman and I chased him up to the roof where he was waiting. Ambushed us behind a maintenance shed; I lost my weapon. Eastman covered as I went running for my gun, turned to fire but Maddox had already drawn down on us. Eastman was shot, I took cover, returned fire."

End of story.

He took in a ragged breath and kept his eyes closed, felt her fingers running through his grimy hair, down his neck, stroking his sides. She was warm on top of him, a liquid heat that filled him up, and she didn't stop touching, everywhere, just touching.

She was gentling him; he knew it, could feel it, and for the first time in weeks, he wanted her. He wanted her so badly, but-

"You've got blood under your nails," she murmured. "In your hair. Rick. I am so sorry."

"Maddox won't be back," he rasped, clearing his throat when the words scraped. "But Bracken. He's still out there. I'll get him next."

"I never wanted you to do this. Not like this. It's not worth your life, not worth Eastman's or the other two agents who were killed-"

He stiffened. Two. She'd said two other- "What do you mean?"

"Castle," she murmured, her lips at his jaw, his mouth, light brushes that made his skin shiver. "Castle, I'm fucked up. And you know it. Don't cater to me just because I can't control myself. There shouldn't be - this is too high a price. Even for-"

"Kate-"

"You could've been killed," she whispered, and he heard the agony in her voice. But not for the pain in her back, for him. "It's not worth it. It's not worth it. I need you more."

"I will kill him," he said quietly. "I'll kill him, Beckett, and it will be over."

She squeezed his biceps and lifted her head, her eyes so dark, swirling with grief. "No. That's not justice."

He kept his mouth shut but-

It was justice enough.

* * *

He should shower; she saw it now, tasted it, felt it all over herself as well. They both needed to shower, strip the bedsheets off, be clean.

She drew her leg slowly off of him, felt that instinctive and clutching grip of his hand and kissed his jaw where she could reach. It tasted - wrong. She didn't want to know what it was she tasted.

"We should get cleaned up," she murmured. And because he was still not letting her go- "Castle, only if you can. I think I could - maybe in the sink-"

"No," he shuddered, as if coming awake after a long, cold sleep. His voice was raw. "No, I can help you bathe."

Her skin rippled at the words, but they weren't sexual, they didn't mean he wanted her. Still, there was intimacy in them now where there wasn't before. He wasn't just performing a necessary function; he wanted to bathe her.

"Okay," she whispered at his jaw. "That'd be good."

He roused, his head lifting as if he was looking at her for the first time, and she eased off of his chest to lie on her side, watching him study her. He must've sensed it too, the shift between them. She curled her fingers at his chest and brushed her thumb over his stiff shirt.

Blood. Stiffened with blood. Enough that he must've gone to Eastman, tried to stop the bleeding, tried to save his friend and partner and fellow agent. Brother.

She closed her eyes. This was her fault, her mother's case she'd dragged him down into, and she'd gotten his only real family killed. His father wasn't-

"Kate," he murmured. She felt him capture her hand and draw it to his lips. "I should probably - I need a shower first."

She nodded and opened her eyes to look at him. "You do."

"And then I'll clean out the tub and run water for you. Help you wash off all. . .this."

But would she ever be clean?

She swallowed and stared at him, the blue of his eyes like flint that had morphed into crumbling sandstone. A rock that couldn't hold together, that kept getting chipped away, dissolved by wind and water.

Eroded into nothing.

* * *

He kept the lights off in the bathroom, didn't want to see his own face in the mirror. He could sense Beckett's eyes on him as he stripped out of his clothes; he'd left the door open because it had made his chest tighten when he'd gone to close it.

He felt battered, and it wasn't in his body. He felt old.

Castle stepped into the shower without checking it, hissed as the cold crawled over his skin. He needed to save the hot water for her bath, though, so he scraped his hands through his hair and tilted his head back, let it souse over him.

He opened his eyes in the darkness and still saw the chest wound, the gasping, sucking breath as it came and then as it didn't come. And then, instead of Eastman, it was Beckett. Her body, her blood, the life loosening from her limbs and melting away.

Castle growled and grabbed for the shampoo, lathered it in his hair roughly, hoping to scour the images out of his head. He went quickly, made sure he got some soap on his chest, his neck, to wash out the blood. The-

Eastman.

Fuck, fuck, he couldn't do this right now. Not right now.

Kate.

He took in a breath and blinked through water, wishing he'd turned on the light. The darkness and the wet were spinning his mind back through time, to Ireland and skinny dipping with Colleen only to wrap his arm around her neck, the knife, and drag her down and under and down-

Enough. Foley was awaiting sentencing and Colleen, Sophia, all of them-

They were never Kate.

Kate who was waiting for him.

He shut off the water and stepped out, scrubbed the towel down his face before leaning over to push the stopper into the drain.

A hot bath, the best he could do for her right now.

* * *

He'd drawn the bath, and the water came up high, she saw, would be nearly to her fresh stitches, but she knew he'd make sure to keep them dry. She trusted him; they'd done this often enough already.

She shivered in the chill air as he drew her leggings down, fingers skimming her skin and making her knees weak. Or maybe it was just standing up for so long; she had to put her hands to his shoulders and cling to stay upright.

Castle was delicate with her ankles, thumbs brushing around the bone as he untangled the material from her feet. And then he rose up and brought her loose tshirt with him - his shirt, actually, that the doctor had given her after stitching her up again. Castle must've provided it.

He tossed her clothes back towards the bedroom but she stepped into him, needing his body to hold hers up. Normally, she hated it, despised the weakness trembling through her bones, eating away at her muscles. But he needed her too, he needed her after what had happened, the price he'd paid, and she could do this for him. She could let him hold her up if that's what banished the darkness in his eyes.

He smelled sharply clean, cold water clean, and she leaned in to press her mouth to his collarbone, that dip where it hollowed out and formed a natural place for her lips. His hand came to tangle in her hair, but she stayed anyway.

She wasn't sure what was going on in his head, what had him so tense and angry against her, the lights off and the room cool and dark and ghostly in the moonlight. She'd have thought he'd want some light, the door shut to warm the room up, but it was the opposite tonight.

"Rick," she murmured at his skin, lifted her head to him.

He let her go, stepped back, and surely she was imagining the flex of his fingers around her neck.

He was still naked, his skin cool to the touch, but he stepped into the clawfoot tub first, held her by the elbows as she shakily climbed in after him. He drew her down against him, her chest to his, and she sucked in a breath at the touch, wished she had the energy or the range of motion to do anything at all about the flicker of awareness that suddenly flamed between them.

Bright, burning.

"I got you," he murmured, and he drew an arm around her neck to keep her up against him. His other hand trailed down her left side, fingers wet and warm, well away from her bandaged back but delicious and soothing. Her body melted into his, her knees coming up to bracket his hips, letting her arms fall around his ribs and her hands drift in the eddies of water.

Her head tilted to his shoulder, keeping her upper back out of the water and giving him the chance to let go of her neck. He used both hands to slide down her ribs, soft and wide, and then to her hips with a squeeze and back up at her thighs, fingers hooking at her knees.

He hadn't even reached for the soap yet, and she didn't care. Oh, she didn't care at all. Let him touch, let his hands map her body and ease them both. Still the flame burned, a small point of light between them, caught somewhere belly to belly, and she curled her arms up at his sides in the tight space, fingers pressing against the porcelain of the old tub, thumbs at his ribs.

"I love you," she said quietly into the darkness at his ear. "I love you, Rick, and I never meant for you get hurt. For Eastman and those two men to die. Never."

* * *

It took a supreme effort of self-control not to wrap his arms tightly around her the moment she said _I love you_ in that breathy, soft voice at his ear.

And then it was a different kind of stillness that fell over him when she said the rest. Echoes of years ago, echoes of Colleen in the dark water, their skin warm and close, and the words in his ear that testified against her.

But this was Kate.

Not Colleen. Not Sophia. Not a woman out to betray him.

"How did you know they died?" he said quietly, heard his own voice echoing the question of fifteen years ago in a lake in Ireland. "How did you know that two other men had died, Kate."

She stiffened against him, and he struggled to choke out memories of another woman, another time, another place.

This was Kate.

"Who told you," he said quietly, his fingers wrapping around her thighs and squeezing tight. Too tight. He was hurting her. He had to stop.

"Your father came," she whispered finally, a choked note in her voice that made his hands gentle but his chest tighten.

"Black? When? What did he say to you?"

She was silent for a long time and he growled into the darkness, hooked his arm low at her waist and pressed her deeper into him, wanting her and needing her and afraid for her.

"Beckett. Tell me what he said."

"He said you'd killed Maddox but had lost three men in the process."

The silence between her words said more though. The rasp in her voice was nearly as dark and terrible as it had been when he'd found her in the woods, broken. His damn father was the cause of this.

"I'm going to fucking kill him," he growled.

She flinched and he remembered to ease up, made sure his hands hadn't gotten the bandage wet, but she was trying to lift off of his body, trying to push away.

"Castle. Don't. He's your father. He was - he obviously cares about you-"

"The hell he does. He's not my father."

"Castle-"

"He was never a father to me, Beckett. All he did was pick me up and tell me what to do, where to go, how hard to train. That's not a father, that's a dictator."

"I won't defend him. I don't like him. But he's only ever told me the truth."

"Truth?" he said heatedly, sitting up so they were face to face, so he could look her in the eyes and have her _know_. "It's not the truth, Kate. Whatever he said to you - it's not the truth. It's damage control for his precious experiment."

Her body was practically vibrating in his arms, her hands gripping his biceps. "His - experiment?"

"Me."

"What?"

"You think he took me in out of the goodness of his heart?" He laughed and heard for himself how fucking pathetic he sounded. Shit. She was cracking through everything he'd ever built up to protect himself. "Kate, love, as Black himself has told me many times - the best operatives are orphans."

* * *

"Oh God," she gasped and she bowed her body over his until their foreheads touched. "Castle."

"I'm fine, Beckett. Don't pity me," he growled, his hands suddenly at her shoulders as if he'd push her away. And yet she heard her own self in his voice, her own stupid pride, familiar and just as debilitating, wasn't it? and so she cradled his face, laid her head back down at his chest so that she was tucked up into him and he had to hold her up again.

"I don't pity you," she murmured at his collarbone. "I love you."

He still felt tense under her, like he'd get out of the bathtub at any moment and leave her there.

"Whatever else he's done," she started. "He's trying to keep you safe. He has your best interests-"

"No."

She sighed. "Your well-being then-"

"Hardly."

"Physical safety," she compromised. "He doesn't want you to die. And neither do I. So in that - we're united."

"Don't you dare align yourself with him. You are - Beckett. _Kate._ You are so much more. You're everything. You are my family and all-"

She silenced his brokenness with her mouth, her kiss sensitive and light because she couldn't hold herself up any longer. Exhaustion licked at her body, eroding her strength, and she still felt sweaty and grimy and only halfway clean, but she touched her tongue to the hot-cool of his mouth, wrapped her legs around him.

He groaned into her kiss and clutched her thighs, trembling under her.

She could do nothing about it, but she held herself against him until it passed.

* * *

He spoke the truth to her while he ran soap over her skin, murmured into her ear all that was right and good, and all that was wrong as well.

"Never mind what he says about us," he said softly, his hands lathered and skimming her lower back, her thighs. He'd had to drain half the water so he could get her clean, and even though the room was chilled, she was warm over him. "Don't listen to anything he says, Kate. I had to learn that trick years ago."

She sighed at his neck and he lifted a wet hand to her hair, combed through it slowly, working the tangles out as he carefully kept from dripping water to her wound.

"He plays headgames to get what he wants. Arranges things. Master chess player. When East-" He had to stop and clear his throat, still his hands before he continued. "When Eastman took me under his wing, taught me the ropes out in the field, Black had Eastman reassigned, then gave him a desk job here in the city office."

She didn't say anything, but he didn't need her to. She was quiet but he knew she was listening. Castle stroked his thumb over her neck and was reminded - this was Kate, this was Kate. This wasn't Ireland fifteen years ago.

"He keeps me alienated and without ties. He needs me emotionless and able to do my job, be a machine. I've let him because it was easiest. There's a program, and when I stick to the the program, everything goes smoothly. I get the assignments I want, I don't hear from him that much, and I do my job well."

Her thumb skated his ribs and he drew his hand down her arm to capture it, bring it to his mouth to kiss her fingertips.

"But you."

He opened her palm and put his lips to the warm curl of her hand, haunted her wrist until she stirred. He'd missed this, the connection they had when their bodies touched. He'd been denying himself _her_ because she was just too broken and in pain. But he'd been wrong. She needed this too; she felt more in control when their bodies came together, even if it was just so she could feel what she did to him and nothing more.

"You, Kate Beckett." He brought her arm slowly up until he could touch his mouth to the inside of her elbow, then to her bicep, licking at her soapy skin before moving to her neck.

"Me?" she breathed out, her voice moist and hot and sleepy at his ear.

"You make me want things."

She groaned over him, the sound traveling into him and making his blood sing.

"You make me need you, want you, love you. And he can't have that. It ruins all his work. So he's out to break us, Kate."

"He can't," she sighed into him. "He won't."

"Then don't listen to him. If he comes to you again, you tell me. It works better for him if you're keeping it from me."

Her knees bumped his elbows and he twisted her hair in his hand, angled her head so that he could dip her hair into the water on her good side. She let out a little breath, almost a moan, when the heated water touched her scalp, and Castle stroked his fingers through her hair to get it wet.

He cradled her at his side, the long strands like silk in the water and touching him everywhere. Her eyes were closed when she finally spoke.

"He said those men had died because I couldn't keep you here. The one thing he'd asked of me - to keep you safe - and I'd let you go. I couldn't keep you."

"Kate," he murmured, leaning over her to press his mouth to her forehead, slowly drawing her up again. He squeezed her hair, twisted it in a loop around his hand to keep it off her back. "Kate, love, you don't keep me. And I don't keep you. That's not how this works."

Her eyes flickered open; her mouth parted. She took in a long breath as he maneuvered her higher on his chest to keep her out of the water.

And then she touched her palm to his forearm, his fingers still wrapped in her hair, and she curled her hand there.

"Partners," she said, her eyes as dark as the night and filled with so much more.


	3. Chapter 3

**Close Encounters 3.5**

* * *

"Kate-love, I need you to sit up," he murmured.

She felt awareness return slowly, a hand down her body, and then the rocking of water against her skin. Her hair was heavy, but he was holding her up, she roused drowsily to sit in his lap, still in the bath.

She shivered and winced as it pulled her skin around the stitches.

"I can't carry you out of the bathtub," he said softly. "You remember what happened last time."

She'd laugh at that but it took all her effort to hold herself upright as he stood quickly, hopped out of the bathtub with a speed and agility she envied and longed for and ached over. He was already turning back for her, his fingers at her elbows, but she knew she'd have to do this part herself.

He leaned his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling. "You got this, Kate."

She nodded, jostling his head from hers, noses bumping, and she breathed out, slowly got her feet under her. He helped as best he could without putting too much strain on her elbows (which always transmitted the work to her back) and then she was swaying into his chest as her body gave out.

He caught her, an arm low around her waist, his mouth at her ear and whispering nonsense that she believed anyway. Would always believe.

"I got you, I got you. You won't fall. You can do this. Lift your knee, sweetheart. Just a little more and then I'll get you in bed and we can warm up and you can sleep. Okay?"

She dragged her knee over the rim of the bathtub, stumbled with him as he tried not to carry her and so pull on her stitches. She mustered enough will to get her feet moving, walking, and he was wrapping a towel around her loosely as he pushed her towards the bed.

"I'm so tired," she let out, sighing with it. She hated herself for being weak enough to admit it, but she couldn't stop.

He managed to control her fall down to the bed, but she was barely sitting and swaying, her hair over her good shoulder and dripping wetly down her breast. She shivered again and the goose bumps that rose made her stiffen.

"I've got pain pills for you, Kate-"

"No."

"Just one."

"No," she said again, struggling to open her eyes. "No more. They make me sick."

He swallowed and she knew that had gotten to him. She reached up a hand to touch her wet hair, but he gently nudged her fingers away and began drying it, rubbing the strands between the ends of the towel.

"Okay," he said finally. "Let me find you a clean shirt."

She swayed on the bed, watched him pull another one of his own tshirts from his suitcase before coming back to her. She let him ease the white cotton over her head, let him manipulate one arm through but she stuttered back when he started to rotate the other one.

"Can't," she said on a grunt, shaking her head, arm pressed into her chest. "Don't-"

"I won't," he murmured. "I won't. Lie down, Kate."

She opened her fist on a long breath in, pushed her fingers into the place at his ribs; he was wearing only a towel around his waist. "You first," she said finally.

He stroked the damp hair back from her face and nudged into her mouth for a kiss, soft, warm, her body unfurling with slow and heady pleasure.

"I missed you," she said stupidly, because he'd been here this whole time. All along.

Well, almost all along. He'd left. But he came back. He'd always come back, right?

He hummed and his fingers carded through her hair, held her against him for a moment more before he got up. "I'll be right back."

She curled down into the bed and laid there watching him, his movements quick and smooth as he yanked the towel away, hung both of theirs in the bathroom. She watched him come back, strong and tall and broad, handsome and certain. He stepped into boxers and then slid under the sheets, moving her over gently.

She draped herself over his chest, her bad arm and stiff shoulder pulled in tight under the shirt, wishing to have him at her back again but not sure she could survive it either. She could hear the slow measure of his heart and the loose-limbed warmth of him under her. She was grateful, for the first time since she'd been shot, of how he cared for her.

She was letting herself be okay with it, slowly but surely.

Kate circled her fingers at his hip and then drew her hand up to curl at his ribs, the heat of him thawing her skin.

He was so good for her. And she was so bad for him. She was mint and pickles to his wounds and dumping him on a camel bound for the Australian consulate. What had Kate Beckett ever done for him? She'd gotten him to eat syrup and frivolous calories? She'd cracked open his well-guarded life? What were those things against the balance of everything he'd lost for her - his team, his job, his place.

He'd said to ignore his father, but Black was blunt in his words and unadorned in his speech; he told it so plainly that there was no way to ignore it. Castle was in over his head with Bracken and the rest of them.

She was going to get him killed.

"Stop thinking," he said suddenly. "Kate, just stop. It's going to take time and therapy to turn off the damn messages in your head that my asshole father put there. Believe me; I know. So just stop for tonight. Okay?"

"Tell me a story," she murmured into the darkness, hunching against him. Her brain wouldn't turn off; it kept choking her with ever tightening circles of thought - like a noose. "Castle. Tell me a story."

He sighed. "A story? Here's a story. You think you're the one with an obsession? Well, remember Foley?. It was in Ireland that I swore I'd ruin Foley's gun smuggling operation and destroy the man, make him pay."

She took in a shaky breath and slid her knee over his hip, settling deeper into him. "Why?"

"He's evil incarnate."

She swallowed at that and felt his fingers combing delicately through her damp hair.

"He sent a woman to kill me. Her name was Colleen. I thought I loved her."

Kate closed her eyes. Maybe she shouldn't have asked.

* * *

He was drowning once more, the woman's weight heavy over his in the water, her hair tangled in his fingers, the knife-

Castle opened his eyes and took in a lungful of cool, dry air. He wasn't in Ireland; this wasn't Colleen.

Why did it haunt him now? - what he'd done to a woman he'd most likely loved. Or had thought, for a time, he might one day love like he ought to, like most people did.

"It was the first time I broke protocol," he said quietly, because he needed to explain, needed to understand for himself as well. "Colleen was dark haired, pale, a small thing. Like she. . ."

Kate sighed over him and he stopped trying to finish that sentence.

"I should have stuck to the plan. But I thought I was smart, thought I could use her to my own advantage. I ignored Black's every order to cut bait, and instead I went fishing. She tried to get me to talk - I could see that much at least - and I knew she was somehow related to the Foley group - how could she not be? They were using her to get information from me, but I knew I was better, smarter. So I abandoned the plan."

Kate's fingers spread across his ribs and her thumb suddenly brushed hard over his shoulder. He reached for her hand and gripped it, needing more than just the heavy anchor of her body, needing the connection, the way they fit together.

"We were swimming in a lake near my posting. I'd just gotten a message from the North Ireland office about her, confirming my theory about her place in the operation, but apparently she'd intercepted it first. So she knew that I knew. She teased me, I could feel her in the water like a silkie, and then she popped up behind me and slid her arm around my neck. And she said, _I'm sorry about Evan._"

"Evan?"

"A boy in town. He'd been killed by Foley's enforcers the night before. Evan had - he'd been running messages for me. She'd found him. I'd been waiting all day for him to come home, but he never-"

Her hand squeezed his and he sucked in a breath.

"She shouldn't have known anything about Evan," he said finally.

"Oh, no."

"And then she was drawing the knife across my neck-"

"Oh, God-"

"But I broke her wrist and twisted out of her grip, struggled for the knife. I brought my weight down on her so that we sank under the water."

Her hand squeezed his so tightly that it brought their palms together; her mouth pressed to his shoulder.

"I got my arm around her throat, my other hand around her wrist, and her body bucked against mine, so much strength, and then I snapped her neck."

He heard Kate's ragged breath in, the tension of her body over his and he closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry. That's not a good bedtime story."

She was shaking. Her fingers untangled from his, dislodging his hand, and his heart squeezed to keep from breaking.

Her palm came lightly to his jaw and then she was liquid heat over him, her mouth at his, her tongue pushing inside, her body a brand. She broke the kiss after entirely too short a time, her breath catching in her chest.

"Terrible bedtime story," she sighed. "But apparently it was the one you needed to tell."

He wrapped his arms around her neck to avoid her back, and something in him broke open with light when she didn't even flinch, didn't hesitate, just burrowed tighter into him.

Castle pressed his mouth to her temple, knew his teeth were scraping her skin, but his kiss was too relieved, too fucking pathetic and grateful for him to control it.

"I love you," he groaned. "I love you, just you, only you."

* * *

When she woke cold, her eyelids dragged open and she pulled her arms into her body with a grunt.

He was standing by the bed and already drawing a blanket around her, but he'd somehow gotten her other arm through the sleeve of the shirt. She blinked at him. The morning light was pale green in the room where the summer's leaves screened the window. She slipped her hand out from under the covers and caught his fingers as he moved to leave.

"Castle," she rasped.

He leaned over and kissed her temple, brushing the hair back from her face where it'd kinked up after drying last night.

"It's early," he said softly. "And you need to sleep."

And that's all it took. She did.

* * *

He kept hovering, like he thought now she was breakable now that his father had gotten to her, now that she'd done one stupid thing and tried to run after him on a horse; he thought she was going to fall apart.

But she wouldn't. She wasn't going to break.

"Castle," she growled, eyeing him from the bed as he tried to dress her.

"Let me just-

"Castle. I can get my damn shirt on." Barely. But she could. "Just give me enough _time_, would you?"

He backed up, nodded, but he still stared at her.

"Castle, how about you. . .make us breakfast. Okay? I'll get dressed and you can. . .not stare at me creepily."

He sighed, and she could see his fingers twitching. He wanted to help so badly, didn't he? But Kate could get her shirt on, if given enough time.

"Breakfast," she reminded him.

He turned and went hesitantly out the door.

* * *

When Castle tried to _feed her_, she had enough.

"Castle," she growled. "I swear, if you don't back the hell off, I'm going to break your fingers."

He dropped the fork and shoved his chair back from the table, stalked out.

Her nostrils flared and she shoved a hand through her hair, growled at herself, at him, at the damn wound that wouldn't heal.

"Castle," she called out.

She heard nothing, but some instinct for him made her lift her head from her hand and look towards the doorway. He was still standing there, like he'd been silently watching her. And that pissed her off as well, but she hadn't meant to hurt his feelings.

"Beckett."

"Just give me an hour, okay? I just need an hour." She winced at the shuttering of his eyes, but she couldn't and wouldn't take it back. She needed to go at her own pace, needed to be _better_, stronger, in control again.

That wouldn't happen if he was feeding her breakfast.

* * *

He gave her an hour. Exactly an hour, and then he came back for her.

She was still in the kitchen. Breakfast half-eaten. The toast was gone, but the eggs were cold and untouched and the bacon - not at all. She was leaning into her good elbow on the table and rubbing her fingers at her temple.

"Beckett?"

She jerked and hissed with pain, gritted her teeth at him with a flash of anger in her eyes. "Castle."

"You need to eat before physical therapy."

"Has it been an hour?" she said instead.

"Yes."

"Fuck."

He couldn't help the flicker of a grin that crossed his face at her curse and all the ire went right out of her, a long sigh that seemed to make her deflate. He stopped grinning.

"Help me up," she got out.

"Help you-"

"Don't act like you haven't been hovering in the hallway for the last twenty minutes listening to me try to stand up, Castle."

Yeah. He had.

Castle went to her immediately and wrapped his arms around her waist, lifted her up easily. He felt her body stiffen at the movement, and her breath hot on his neck, but she got to her feet.

He knew she hated needing him.

* * *

He was waiting for her outside the PT room, and she listed down the hall away from him but couldn't keep her balance. He caught her and practically carried her to the bedroom, laid her down on her stomach. She fell asleep before she could finish growling at him.

* * *

She really hated the damn therapist. The man drove in once a week to try to open her like a nut, cracks in her walls, and she knew it was for the best, knew that it would only help, but it didn't. It didn't help at all.

It made her edgy and pissed; it made her feel raw and weepy.

She didn't like being that person.

"Look, Dr. King, I don't think this helps. It just drags up issues that I've dealt with."

"Kate. Dragging them up means they are still issues, wouldn't you think?"

She growled and tilted her head back, but her spine spasmed and she grunted with it, dropped her chin to keep the muscles from clenching so hard.

"Kate. Would you like to tell me about your mother's death?"

"No."

"All right. What about your father-"

"No. This isn't about my parents," she growled at him. He was a nice man, really. Soft-spoken, clean hands; he never made notes while she spoke. He listened carefully and his eyes regarded hers with honor and dignity.

She missed dignity. She missed someone looking at her like she had it under control if given enough time.

Fuck. She was messed up.

"It's not about your parents; it's about you," Dr King said gently. "Isn't it, Kate?"

"It's about - it's about getting my damn badge back, my gun, and getting back out there. Instead, I'm stuck here."

"Well, isn't it clear to you that you can't right now?"

She could hit him, she really could.

"Kate. Can you get back out there - with your gun and your badge?"

"No," she ground out, her chest tight with it, back aching. She just waned to lie down.

"So why can't you let yourself rebuild, Kate? It takes time. You're not perfect."

"But I-" Kate stopped, pressed the back of her hand to her cheek and felt the tears.

"You what?"

She should be.

She should be perfect.

* * *

Castle trekked the rugged path in the early light, breathing through a humidity that was already making him sweat at six in the morning. His tshirt clung to his shoulders and chest like a second skin, and he took another swig of his water bottle to combat dehydration and then hooked it back on his climbing harness.

He had another mile or so before he'd turn around and run it back, but this leg was the most difficult, harrowing at times when the trail narrowed down to barely a toehold. He hadn't done the endurance climb in years, not since his twenties at least, when he'd been to Stone Farm after his own bullet wound.

He'd forgotten a lot. He'd forgotten that his fingers were usually too fat, his hands too broad and wide to fit in the usual holds. He wasn't certain how he was going to get back on a few of the passes, but he'd figure it out. That was part of being an operative - thinking on his feet.

He scraped a hand across the back of his neck to dry the pools of sweat, and then he found the trail again, maneuvered his body through the narrowing gorge and towards the sharp incline. He had to use his hands to pull himself up, hooking his carabiner into the permanent bomber anchor in the face of the rock. He set his next point, hooked his harness to it, and climbed higher, sweat running into his eyes.

He found a bucket grip and rested for a moment, the large handhold able to give him enough of a grip that he could hang there indefinitely. He tested his core by letting go, barn-dooring out, one side swinging free, and then he angled himself back to the wall of rock.

His eyes stung, but he clipped his biner to the next anchor point above him and crawled up.

Raglan was dead, Maddox was dead, but Bracken had proved he had an infinite supply of assassins. Castle had to be ready.

He bumped his handhold into a tighter one, knuckles scraping, and curled himself upward by his fingertips - just to see if he could.

* * *

Beckett worked her feet slowly on the path.

Rebuilding. Had to rebuild to get back out there. She knew that. Of course she did - it wouldn't come overnight.

But she wouldn't go docilely back to bed and wait for Castle to feed her, wait for Castle to bathe her, dress her, rock her to sleep. She wasn't a child; she could do this on her own. She just needed time.

Just like Dr King had said.

She felt the rock crumble under her shoe and the slide of her feet back down the path. Her back twisted as she tried to regain her balance and she grunted in pain, finally managed to catch herself on a twisted, stunted tree.

Fuck. It wasn't like she was mountain climbing here. She was just trying to walk the damn path to the stream. It seemed like every step was against her.

She swayed for a second, dizzy and sweating in the summer sun, bowed her head to keep from passing out.

She could do this. She could rebuild.

Stronger, better. Faster.

If she'd been stronger, she would've been able to knock Castle out of the way of that bullet rather than just grabbing him and standing there like an idiot.

Instead of shoving him down when she'd seen the gun, she'd taken a damn bullet to the back like a coward.

Fuck. This wasn't easy.

Beckett growled and released the tree branch, steadied her feet on the path.

Work produced results. Physical therapy was fine, and yeah, it hurt like hell, but it was too slow, too limited. They were moving her arm around and that was it. She needed to work her legs, her balance, her core muscles. She knew what had to be done.

Rebuild.

This was the fastest way.

* * *

Castle was just coming back from his climb when he saw the silhouette on the path; the sun was in his eyes and made him squint.

Was that-?

She collapsed to her knees and he came running.

"Kate-"

"Shit, no. What are you doing here?" she groaned, on her hands in the dirt and trying to turn away from him.

And of course, she didn't have the strength left for it.

"What are _you_ doing here?" he hissed back, crouching next to her and trying to get his arms under her.

"If you fucking carry me back to the house, I will claw your eyes out."

He stopped trying to hook her knees over his arm and just squatted there beside her. She had her eyes closed and her breaths were coming fast, but she slowly sat up. He felt like it was an intrusion to watch her battle at her own body, and he averted his eyes.

A couple weeks back, she'd fallen just outside the barn, a horse evidently saddled and waiting for her, but her body unwilling to climb the mounting blocks at the fence. It was set-up for the injured patients, but Castle knew for a fact she hadn't been cleared for the riding yet. And then a few days ago, trying to take a horse to _come find him_ and getting thrown off.

And now she was what? Trying to fucking climb a cliff?

"This isn't on your schedule," he said, glancing over at her again.

Her eyes flashed open, a pure wave of hatred aimed straight at him. It had been panic-inducing the first week - the way her fury became a laser and he the target, and then frustrating the second week. Now it just made him sad.

She was getting stronger; she was healing, and with that strength and newfound sense of endurance, she pushed herself too far. Beckett had no concept of _average_. She couldn't let her progress stand; she always had to be working herself to death.

"Beckett," he said again, firmly. "This isn't on your recovery schedule."

"Would you stop reading my medical charts, Castle? It's illegal and annoying as hell."

"Would you stop killing yourself just to prove you're not a liability to me? It's annoying as hell and it's not even close to true."

She groaned and bowed towards the dirt track outside the riding ring, and he knew he'd hit the bull's-eye with that one.

"Damn it, Beckett. You're going to hurt yourself and do permanent damage if you keep this up."

"I'm already damaged."

"No. You're rebuilding. Don't you listen to the psychologist?"

She snorted at that and he smiled back, a ghost of thing, and pulled her to her knees, then stood with her, let her sway in his grip.

"I listen."

"Coulda fooled me," he muttered, but pressed his open mouth to her temple and breathed in the scent of dirt and sweat and her conditioner. He was intimately familiar with that conditioner, had rinsed it into her hair nearly every morning.

That might be part of the problem.

She shrugged her shoulders to get out from under him and took a step away.

He missed her.

He missed her so much he ached.


	4. Chapter 4

**Close Encounters 3.5**

* * *

Kate moved slowly after physical therapy; she took a shallow breath and pressed the heel of her hand into her chest. The ache started in her back and drilled straight through, made it feel like she had a knife just under her shoulder blade. Robert had been disgusted with her for the fresh injuries to her new stitches and had cut their session short. _I can't do anything with you like this. Stop being an idiot._

Beckett swallowed hard at the memory and pressed her thumb into her eyebrow, trying not to cry.

Robert, that sadistic son of a bitch, loved to torture her. But not even that had made him put her through the full workout. She was more than an idiot, she was reckless and self-destructive. And she knew that, had known that, but-

She needed to be better than this. For him.

Speaking of. She hadn't seen Castle since this morning; in fact, Logan had been the one who'd woken her up. She wondered where he always went off to on these therapy mornings; she'd assumed he was doing work, closeting himself at a desk somewhere.

When she managed to walk down to the kitchen, her exhaustion made food completely unattractive. She should eat, but she'd be more likely to if Castle made it for her. And yeah, she hated that, but she'd suffer his hovering if he made her lunch.

So she set out again, moving slowly, letting her breathing dictate how fast she explored the house. Or rather, just how miserably slow. She had to stop and rest against the wall, her shoulder screaming, her back like a hot ribbon of agony. But she'd done this - she'd torn her stitches trying to prove something. Riding a damn horse to prove herself strong enough. What a massive idiot.

She'd only failed. And set back her progress a couple of weeks.

The house. She'd not made it upstairs yet, but that seemed daunting with the pain lancing down her back, so she just continued past the kitchen towards the long hall. The floors creaked, but there was some commotion from down here - the sound of voices, a laugh, metal clanking.

She knew that Ragle was here - the director - and then there was a trauma doctor, her physical therapist, Logan the medical tech, and at least one other patient/inmate. She'd not seen the wounded man and the physical therapist, Robert, had said something about him not yet being mobile. Dr King drove in from somewhere else, so he wasn't usually on the grounds.

So who was this?

When she'd gotten to the other end of the hall opposite theirs, she heard a deep male grunt; it echoed like a fist in her gut. She stumbled to a stop at the sound, heart kicking up, fingers tingling.

It was Castle. She knew it without even looking; she could never mistake his voice. In pain or pleasure, the way he sounded-

She gripped the top of the chair rail and eased forward to investigate, her mouth dry as she heard it come again. Grunting, a groan that sent goose bumps over her skin, and then the rattling clang of metal again.

Weight lifting? Was he-

She paused at the edge of an open door at the end of the hall, sunlight streaming through the bare windows. Castle was on his back at a bench press, the taut and trembling line of his bare abs glistening with sweat, staining the waistband of his dark grey workout pants. A growl came out of his throat as he heaved the barbell over his head, loaded down with what had to be two hundred pounds or more.

His spotter was close but didn't look concerned, and Castle went through his reps slowly, evenly, grunting with every exhale.

She leaned against the wall, eyes riveted, and wondered why he'd been keeping this such a secret. He'd spent each morning away from her - she'd thought he was trying to give her time to recover after physical therapy, get her pain under control, wash up a little, that he was finally learning to give her space.

But he was training.

Wow. Really training. Hard.

She covered her mouth to keep from groaning in time to the flare of his body as he bench pressed, blinking at the ripple of skin and tendons and muscle. She'd never gone in for body builders - it seemed too much, too ridiculous - but his chest was so broad and wide and - hard. Not too much at all. Not ripped, but defined. So very defined.

And his biceps were massive.

Before she could move - and she wasn't quick anyway - Castle was letting the barbell go back, the spotter guiding it to the rack. Castle sat up and gave the spotter a gesture, the younger man moving off, and-

And then Castle saw her there.

* * *

He froze, but Beckett was stalking towards him.

Well.

Not stalking.

She had that predator look in her eyes, but her body was a little ragged, her hair pulled back at her neck and curling, her gait slow and pained. His heart tripped at the sight of her, both so stunningly beautiful and also so broken.

He couldn't move, but she was leaning into him now, her hands on his shoulders, and of course his came up to steady her, fingers curling at her hips, and her eyes were so dark and they seemed to swirl with an undercurrent of pain.

"Beckett?"

He was straddling the bench and suddenly _she_ was straddling his leg, her thighs squeezing tightly, her fingers clenching on his shoulders. He stared at her, gripped her waist harder to keep her upright, but she leaned in against him, her forearms propping herself up against his chest.

"Castle," she murmured, but her eyes darted down to his lips and back up again. He felt his exhaustion push him over the edge into lust, muscles tensing, and then she leaned in and touched her tongue to his skin.

"Fuck," he groaned, his head dropping back as she scraped her teeth at his collarbone.

"Don't make promises I can't keep," she said, her voice rich and low, sultry.

He choked out a laugh. He'd heard that voice a thousand times in his dreams, and a hundred more in her bed, a voice that invited him into danger.

"Your mouth," he panted, thumbs pushing into the soft skin above her hips, making her rock forward slowly.

"You taste like sweat," she murmured and dragged her lips up to his chin, nibbled at the scar there.

He dropped his head down and devoured her mouth, sucking her tongue into his and scraping his teeth against her, taking what she teased him with. Her fingers scratched over his jaw and into his scalp, and he gripped her by the nape of her neck to hold her there.

He pressed a hand to her spine to get her closer and his fingers brushed at the edge of her bandage, sticky with surgical tape. He paused, breathing around the assault of her mouth, tried to gather his senses.

"Beckett," he muttered, making his fingers light, trailing them along the hard ridge of her vertebrae. "Beckett, wait."

She curled her fingers around his ears, stroking the shell, the earlobe, angling her mouth to scrape their cheeks together, her fingers ranging over his pecs, down his abs, skimming and discovering and mapping.

"Beckett," he tried again, his fingers at the edge of her stitches as a reminder to himself, to his traitorous body. She breathed hotly at his ear and moaned, that needy and whimpering noise that made him instantly ready for her, and his hips rolled up without his say.

She groaned and stiffened, her forehead coming down hard against his shoulder, her body shuddering.

Had he made her-

"I can't. I hate this," she muttered, and her voice was close to tears. "I hate this and I can't - I shouldn't have-"

She pushed off of him like she was going to flee, but she could barely get her legs to work, and there was no way he was letting her go now.

Castle gripped her neck tighter and kept her at his side, drew his other arm under her knees to let her huddle in a ball against him as she rode out the pain constricting her muscles. Her hands were in fists at his back and she arched, a grunt pushing out of her lips, and if it weren't for the cold sweat on her forehead, it would be one of the most erotic sights he'd ever seen.

But she was in pain.

And his arousal dampened immediately.

* * *

She had a hard time distinguishing the pain from the need, the agony of her inadvertent movement with the ache for more.

She wanted him. So badly.

And for the first time in weeks, he'd responded to her like she wasn't some broken shell of her former self, wasn't something that needed to be coddled and kept in cotton and tiptoed around. He'd responded like she was the woman he knew, his partner, and she wanted _that_ more than she wanted sex.

Which was saying something.

Sex was - this was everything they were.

No. No, it wasn't everything, but they connected-

Shit, she sounded like an ass.

She just needed that with him, wanted it back, and she knew it would make her feel so much more like herself if she could just-

lead him back to their bed and have her way with him. Make him beg for her. Make him come undone.

So strict, so disciplined, so maintained, but he always fell apart at her touch, like all the pieces that his father and his work and his lifestyle had hardened over him were merely armor plating. And when she loved him, she could strip it all away.

She could have _him_. The man she'd wanted from the beginning, the man at war with his darker duty, the man who'd shuddered when he told her about Colleen, the lost little boy on the side of the road.

She missed him.

She ached for him.

"Kate," he murmured.

She lifted her head and found him, right there, his eyes needy and yearning and guilty.

She curled her arms tight around his ribs and drew her knees up, buried her face against the neck of the man who loved her.

* * *

He would figure out a way to stay out of the house during his workouts. The climbing was good, of course, but he'd need something to replace the weight training. He could do it. If it meant not dangling himself in front of Beckett, if it meant not having her come upon him with that dark hunger in her eyes that he couldn't help responding to-

Yeah, he'd make it work.

For now, he sat on the bench with her curled around his body.

"Tell me what to do," he said softly, wishing he could cradle her, but knowing that the tightness in her fists and the way her forehead pressed hard against his chest meant she could barely move. "Kate. Tell me how to help you."

"I want-" she moaned. "I want you to touch me."

His startled hands obeyed before he could think better of it.

He touched.

Her hair, the spot at her neck where the muscle bunched and shivered under his fingers. The sweet corner of her mouth, the so soft skin above her belly button, pulling away quickly when her abs contracted and her mouth pinched in pain.

"I shouldn't-"

"Don't stop," she begged.

He closed his eyes and skimmed his fingers up her stomach to the place at her chest where her heart beat, where the bullet entered into her back and nearly killed her. He wished the press of his fingers could draw the pain out of her and into himself.

She'd been shot because of him.

"I know something else," he said, easing her back so he could look in her eyes. She blinked twice to clear the haze and then frowned.

"What?"

"Have you had lunch?"

She shook her head slowly, and a flash of irrational pride welled up in him at her movement. Just a few days ago, she was still working in physical therapy on that head shake, unable to complete it without pain.

"Me neither. Let me make you something, Kate. I promise I won't try to feed you. And-" he pressed his thumb to the crease of her thigh, right at her hipbone. "You can tell me about this."

And despite the lines of stress and ache that riddled her face, her lips twisted past their grimace into a beautiful, heartbreaking smile.

"My tattoo?" she said, lowering her eyes to the hipbone where he was still stroking. "For lunch? Hmm, okay. Deal, Castle."

* * *

She leaned against the wall behind the bench and picked at her scrambled eggs with two fingers, scooping it slowly towards her mouth. Castle was watching her like he was hungry - and not for food - and that was enough.

He'd finished his eggs and whole wheat toast an hour ago, but he was going slowly with his banana and grapefruit, stretching it out she thought, and she smiled at him to show she appreciated it. Next time maybe she'd have him make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, potato chips. No more breakfasts.

"And did your dad ever find out?" he asked softly.

She shook her head. "He knows I got one. He's never seen it."

"I should hope I'm one of the few."

She tilted her head at him, narrowed her eyes. "Are you. . .asking for my number, Castle?"

He stopped suddenly, then a swift and wolfish grin flashed over his face. "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."

She studied him, the rough set of his features but the smooth, lovely line of his jaw. Those blue eyes. Oh, those hands. And in nearly every war-torn country and more besides that.

She didn't want to know.

"You don't really want to know," she said slowly. "You think you do. But you don't."

"Fine. Be that way. Then you have to tell me something equally as personal and revealing."

"Like?"

He narrowed his eyes at her and she could tell he was thinking hard; it'd be a big one, wouldn't it? He'd ask-

"Your guilty pleasure," he said, and it sounded like he relished the question.

She pressed her lips together to keep from smirking, shifted a little in her seat to get at the last of the morning light coming in through the east windows. Her skin was warm.

"Hmm, 'Temptation Lane'," she said finally, a little shrug when she saw the smugly delighted look on his face. "And what's yours?"

"Mine's music, actually."

"Music?"

"Ah. Lyle Lovett."

"No!" she gasped, blinking and laughing at him. "Country?"

He sighed. "Not really country. Lyle Lovett and Bruce Springsteen, those are my two."

"Nothing wrong with the Boss," she said quickly, felt heat climb her face.

He shared a sly smile with her and reached out a finger to nudge her plate in silent request. She took another forkful of scrambled eggs, glad they were still warm, and swallowed them to make him happy.

"So name your favorite Springsteen song," he said.

"It's a three-way tie."

"Oh?"

"'Girls in their Summer Clothes', 'Secret Garden', and 'Dancing in the Dark'."

"'Secret _Garden'_?" he laughed. "Are you kidding me?"

"You did say guilty pleasure, did you not?"

"Yeah, but that song is terrible."

"Shut up." She lifted her foot from the bench and settled it on his knee, pushing a little when the resistance didn't make spasms start in her back. "Fine, then. What's your favorite Bruce Springsteen song?"

"'Born to Run'," he answered immediately.

She hummed. "I like that one too."

"And 'Dancing in the Dark'?" He narrowed his eyes and half-sang. "'Hey there, baby, I could use just a little more help. This gun's for hire, even if we're just dancing in the dark.'"

She lifted her eyes to him, rivers of heat curling in her belly, but he grinned that lopsided smile, crooked and adorable, and she took another bite of eggs.

"You've had a thing for spies longer than you care to admit," he said with a grin. "This gun for hire?"

"Spies or assassins," she hummed, lifting her eyebrows. "And you. 'Tramps like us, baby, we were born to run. . .'"

And it was too true and not true at all, and he was looking at her like she'd unveiled a mystery.

"Castle," she said quickly. And stopped. Because she realized she'd been about to close it down, darken the room, push him out the door.

And he'd been trying to establish their connection like this, through breakfast-for-lunch and their stories rather than through breakfast and their mouths, breakfast and her hands roaming, breakfast and her shirt shucked over her head and Castle dragging her back towards her room with syrup.

Could he make her come and meet him here in the place where they existed together? In the silence between their stories, in the moment when tattoo turned into music lyrics turned into the language of their love.

"Yeah?" he said.

So she jumped in.

"When I was in fifth grade, I told my mother that when I had kids, I'd never make them do the dishes. Because I hated it, and I'd never do that to my kids. And she told me, 'Katie, sweetheart, do you think _I_ like doing the dishes? That's why you have kids - so they can do them.' And then, with my dad laughing at the horrified look on my face, my mom said, 'I can't wait until you have kids. I have a whole list of _I told you sos_.' But she didn't make it, and now I think. . .I won't have kids because she's not here to rub my nose in it."

"Just because she's not here, doesn't mean she can't still tell you I told you so. I think you'll know - when you have kids - you'll know those moments because you'll hear yourself sound exactly like your mother."

Her chest eased and she found she could lift the corners of her mouth into a grateful smile. She'd shared something - deep and dark - and look how well that had gone. She wasn't blown apart with grief, and in fact, he'd made her smile about it.

"He's never touched me," Castle said suddenly.

Her mind blanked and reformed terribly, horribly, a too-insistent negative, but he winced and shook his head.

"Not what I - shit, well, I guess now I'm grateful I don't mean that," he sighed. "But no. He never - nothing. I just mean I got nothing from him. I was five years old, Kate, and he opened the back door of his car and said, _Come. We're going._"

"Your father," she said quickly, afraid to lose the thread.

"It was Christmas break."

She blanched, had to close her eyes. "I'd always - I thought you said summer. I thought it was at the end of school. . ."

"No."

"Christmas," she said, horrified.

"No," he said slowly, more emphatic, a stress in the syllable that let her know.

He'd spent his first Christmas without his mother. . .with a man who hadn't touch him in love or pride or appreciation. With a man who hadn't celebrated the holiday either. Five years old. Not a hug, not a squeezed shoulder, not a laugh or an I told you so. Nothing.

She bit her bottom lip to keep from crying, knew he'd hate it, and she would too; she was so tired of crying.

So she cleared her throat and lifted her eyes to him, slid her hand across the table until she circled his wrist. "If we had. . .ours. . .they would never be without. Mother or touch," she said and hoped he understood. "Never."

And the ice in his eyes seemed to melt away right in front of her with the heat of his smile. "We'd have cute kids, Kate Beckett. Klutzy, stubborn, cute kids."

She couldn't smile back, not yet, but she sighed and said, "We would. We'd have beautiful kids."


	5. Chapter 5

**Close Encounters 3.5**

* * *

"I want to ride," she growled at him.

"There's a buddy horse," he said slowly, taking over the effort of dressing her himself. She huffed at him, but he drew her sleeve back to find her fingers, straightened the hem on her shoulder. "If you really want to ride."

"A buddy horse?" she said skeptically, then batted at his hands. "Stop. I can do it."

He stepped back as she worked intently at the buttons. Why had she picked this anyway? She could just wear his tshirt and slither it on and off, slowly work her shoulders in and out.

He sighed and gave up just watching, went back in to help her again. She growled and stumbled back. "I can do it by myself."

"You sound like a three year old, Beckett."

"Now you know what you're in for," she muttered back.

He froze with his fingers over hers; she jerked her head up with horror at the back of her eyes.

"I didn't-

"You didn't-"

They both stopped, staring, her breathing shallow but hard, her lashes swept back from her round, terrified eyes.

Cute kids had just moved from a joke to-

What exactly?

He was a _spy_. It wasn't in his future.

"You plan on acting like a three year old for a while?" he said smoothly.

Her shoulders dropped in relief and so did her hands, letting him swoop in and finish buttoning her shirt. He concentrated on that task and tried to blank out the image that was seared into his brain - a petulant three year old with Kate's determined eyes and his clumsy fingers, trying to dress herself in clashing colors.

A fuschia tutu.

Red leggings.

A black hoodie.

Scraping her hair back off her forehead just so he could see her eyes-

Beckett knocked his hands away and took over the job of buttoning the last one, her head bowed to the task so that her cheek brushed his chin. He came slowly out of his reverie and swallowed hard, practically able to reach out and touch that shimmering vision.

"Buddy horse?" Kate said loudly, too loudly, obvious in her attempt to switch the subject. Or un-derail their conversation.

"There's a support saddle that will hold you up. Problem is - it comes pretty high up. But I can walk the horse-"

"Walk the horse? No."

"Or. I can get one of the big beasts and ride behind you. No support saddle, practically bareback-"

"Yes," she said with sudden relish, lifting her head with bright, burning eyes. "That. Yes. Please."

He lifted an eyebrow but she was already moving past him, searching for her tennis shoes. She was wearing jeans as well, which might chafe, and he realized she'd picked out a butterfly collar shirt, a pale cream with a tiny pattern of brown - roses? Something. She was slowly rolling up her cuffs and snapping the pearl buttons together to hold them.

"Let's ride, Castle. It'll be good for me."

"You getting antsy, Beckett?"

"Beyond antsy. I'm gonna shoot someone if I can't get away from here."

"I'll take you, but-"

"No. No conditions. Just-"

"But the moment I say we go back, Kate - we go back."

She stared him down, but surely she knew that while he'd do anything possible to give her the chance to feel free, to be unburdened, he wouldn't endanger her health.

"Okay, fine," she agreed finally. "When you say go back. I go back."

* * *

The ride was agony. She knew better; she'd known better before, but this was truly gruesome.

She kept her lips pressed tightly together and tried to keep from stiffening every time his chest met her back. He was trying, she knew that, but it hurt. It hurt.

Shit, she was messed up. This was bad. Her hands were white where she gripped the horse's mane, and she felt sorry for it, she really did. He was a huge thing, but Castle kept a firm hold of him with reins and knees, and she could feel his every movement at her back, the horse's own strength between her thighs and vibrating through her body.

She might pass out.

This was a bad idea.

A particularly jolting movement of horse shoulder under her right knee made her grunt, and she swayed. Her vision tunneled. Castle was calling her name but she couldn't open her mouth to speak.

The next thing she knew, she was lying with her head in his lap and her feet propped against a tree, her shoulder digging painfully into a rock.

"Kate. Kate. Kate-"

She groaned and tried to sit up, but it wasn't happening. He kept a hand on her shoulder, the other in her hair, so heavy she couldn't possibly move. She could at least take her feet off the bark, curl her legs in.

"You okay?" he said finally, gruff and raw, and she immediately hated herself for what she'd done to him. What she was putting him through.

She shifted in his lap so that her shoulder wasn't against the ground, drew her arms up at her chest to give herself a cushion. She kept her cheek at his thigh, mouth practically open near his knee, and every breath smelled of denim and horse and failure.

"We can stay right here, long as you need to," he murmured.

"The horse."

"He's hobbled right behind me. I've got a tree at my back so I can sit here all day, Kate."

She turned her cheek into him, pressed her nose hard into the ridge of his thigh. She remembered the way he'd looked in that weight room the other day, straining and tense and burning, and this was so very far from that-

So far-

That it made her want to cry.

"I hate being weak," she got out finally.

"You're not weak," he huffed, his fingers tightening in her hair.

"Castle, I can't even-"

"If you showed some damn weakness every once in a while, Beckett, we wouldn't be here, would we? But no. You keep doing things you shouldn't even have the strength to do, let alone the will - riding horses and walking the whole length of the the place and making out with me with those hips rolling-"

She grunted at that and turned her mouth into his jeans, bit at the material until she felt the give of his skin beneath it. He grunted back, wordless the two of them, and his hand fell heavily to her skull, claiming and possessive and not trying to stop her.

She pushed her tongue against his jeans until the damp soaked through and his fingers tightened at her ear, her neck, and he gripped her too hard.

"You gotta stop."

She stopped. But she wasn't quite so miserable.

* * *

It was full dark before they got back to the barn. He'd gone slowly to keep the horse from picking up its pace, but the pitch and roll of its movement made Beckett catch her breath. She wouldn't tell him if it hurt, but he knew it did. He kept an arm around her waist and she eventually listed into him, her good shoulder at his breastbone, her fingers in a fist in his shirt.

When he walked the horse to the dismount block, she looked down at it with something that looked a lot like despair.

"You got it," he said quietly. "I'll go first."

She leaned hard when he wasn't behind her, and he hurriedly got down, stepping to the lower block with a hand at her waist to keep her there.

"Okay, Kate. Pull your knee up-"

"I know," she said, her fingers gripping around his. He watched her slowly draw her knee towards the midline and then twist on the horse's back. Her foot near him stretched down for the top block and he put a hand at her thigh to steady her, control her descent.

The horse stayed perfectly still, trained not to shift around, and Kate slid from its side and to the step, a little breathless. He kept hold of her around her waist and guided her to solid ground.

Her heart was pounding hard in her neck, her cheeks flushed and warm as she leaned into him. He felt her grin and her hands gripping his waist and then she laughed.

"Awesome."

He chuckled and tried to withdraw only to have her body cant after his, swaying. He gripped her by the hip and one elbow, tried not to hurt her. "You okay there?"

"Doing good. I ache all over."

"Sounds kinda the opposite, Beckett."

"I feel good though."

"Yeah?"

"Better."

"You sound better," he murmured, surprised because she actually did sound better. Every step of the horse had to have been so painful, but it wasn't the pain, was it? It was the accomplishment. She hadn't failed.

"You gonna walk back to the room?" he asked, wondering how far she was going to push it.

"I'm. . .gonna need your help," she admitted, still trembling a little against him.

"I can do that."

* * *

She shook off his attempts to get her to eat something; she craved a place to lie down and be nothing.

He was practically carrying her by the time she made it to their room. The muscles in her back had seized and refused to let go, a vicious mouth that sank its teeth into her spine. Every breath ached in her chest.

She immediately laid down on the bed on her stomach, her feet hanging off the edge, muddy shoes still on but her brain ceasing higher-level functioning. She didn't even bother with covers or a pillow, just let her cheek hit the mattress and her eyes close.

And then Castle was there, the bed dipping her towards him. His wide palm came to the back of her thigh and burned through her jeans, and then he skated his hand down her leg to her foot. Loosening the laces on her shoes, one by one, he worked at them with steady hands before tugging them off.

She heard her sneakers hit the floor and felt the firm press of his fingers into her arches, then massaging the back of her calves in a rush of bliss that made her groan.

"You're good at this," she murmured, remembering another time, another place. She drew an arm up to her cheek so she could prop up her head and look at him, but he hovered over her, too close, and kissed the corner of her mouth.

"I like touching you," he said softly, the rough catch in his voice matching the grip of his hands at her thighs.

Castle slid his arm under her, gently tilting her hips, and even though it made her back ripple with pain, the hot and firm press of his hand at her stomach was so worth it. He was unbuttoning her jeans and drawing the zipper down, fingers seeking skin, the tops of her thighs as he peeled back the material from her legs.

She wanted so badly to have the strength to turn over, hook her ankles around his waist and pull his body into hers. She'd spent the last four weeks feeling shitty and weak and burdensome, and now-

Now he was touching her with his mouth.

"Castle," she gasped, jerking when her spine arched and the pain redoubled.

"Sorry, sorry, couldn't stop," he breathed, his forehead pressed into the flare of her lower back, hands kneading, soothing, firm and in control once more.

She felt the scrape of stubble and then he was pulling back to ease her upright, back to business, his face set again.

"Shirt off."

She nodded, used to the way he maneuvered her in and out of her clothes, and a stray thought slipped its way through her.

"Why are you doing this?" she said, tilting her head to look at him.

"Because you can't, Beckett," he said, his eyes on hers and then to the sleeve of her shirt where he was trying not to rotate her bad shoulder. "Needs to be done."

"No. Why you. You don't - this shouldn't be your job."

"I've already seen you naked," he smirked, but the smile dropped off too quickly. "Figured it'd be easier on you if you didn't have to need a lot of people."

"But why not just let Logan do it?"

Castle's face closed down. She'd seen that sudden slam of emergency doors in his eyes before; it was fast and deadly and she was cut off.

"Logan," he said slowly. "The nurse."

"He's the one who gets me in and out of bed for physical therapy. He's the one who changes the bandages and my IV when I got here. It's his job."

"You'd rather Logan do this?" His voice was hollow.

She watched the way he carefully didn't look at her. "Castle. You - it's stopped being fun. For either of us. Seeing me naked. It's. . .ruined."

His eyes lifted to hers on a tremor of breath. "It's not ruined. I'm trying to - keep myself together here, Beckett, because taking your pants off makes me. . .and that's not right."

"But it should be," she insisted. "It should be right. And until it can be again, let someone else-"

"No one else will see you naked," he growled. "Only me."

Her skin prickled with a heat she couldn't do anything about, but it felt good. Finally. "Oh yeah?"

He didn't answer her challenge, only set his jaw stubbornly and went back to work on her shirt, pulling it over her head. When her hair fell down around her shoulders, his fingers stroked the line of her collarbone.

"Only me," he said again, but his voice was pleading and soft and lacked all authority.

"Then don't stop," she breathed out, her body trembling on the terrorizing edge between arousal and worthlessness. She curled her fingers around his hand and pressed it against her. "Don't stop touching me like this. Even if it wrecks us both. I'd rather have that than it all be ruined."

He leaned in and pressed his mouth to her clavicles, scraped his teeth over the hard ridge of bone. She moaned and curled over him even as his hands worked a clean tshirt over her head.

She sighed and let him touch, let him stroke and explore with his breath heavy at her cheek until they were both on the ragged edge of pain.

* * *

He woke burning in the night.

He struggled for breath and light, his chest aching and his ribs contracting painfully under her weight. Sweat slicked between them, and he oriented to the rattle of her lungs, the whine in her chest.

Castle's hands went to her neck, her lower back, and she was on fire.

"Beckett," he grunted. "Beckett, wake up."

She didn't stir. He carefully eased her to the side and slid out from under her, his shirt plastered to his body with sweat - hers and his both. Her skin radiated heat.

"Beckett. Wake up."

He smoothed the hair back from her face and pressed his wrist to her forehead. She was scorching hot, mouth open, breath rattling. She had a fever.

That couldn't be good.

"Beckett. Come on. Wake up." He slid out of bed and kneeled beside her, running his fingers through her damp hair, getting it off her neck, away from her face. "Beckett."

She didn't stir.

He turned and went for the bathroom, started running water in the tub, warm water, close to hot, and then snagged a towel and soaked it. He left the water to fill and came back to the bed, used a corner of the cloth to wipe the sweat from her forehead and cheek, her neck, and then yanked the covers down to lay the towel at her back.

He avoided getting her stitches wet, but he peeled the tape off one edge of the bandage and lifted it.

Angry and red, swollen, hot to the touch.

Infected.

Shit.

He went back to the bathroom, shut off the water, and then came for her.

Had to get her fever under control, and then he'd go get the doctor.

* * *

She woke to water, startled violently at the sting of cold, but he was there.

"I got you. I got you, Beckett."

She opened her eyes.

He hovered over her in the bathtub, and she shivered violently as he poured another cup of water over her soaked tshirt. Her teeth started to chatter and she saw him reach out and adjust the temperature.

"Cold," she muttered.

"It's actually pretty hot. You have a fever, an infection. Dr West is drawing up an IV for you."

"I'm cold," she said back. Why was he dumping water all over her wet pajamas?

"Kate, love, you have a high fever. Are you with me?"

She nodded, her head falling back against his arm. He was holding her away from the edge of the bathtub with a tight grip, his other hand still washing her down with cold water. "Fever."

"Yeah," he said on a rush, a sudden smile breaking across his face. "Yeah, that's good. That's good. You have a fever."

"Why is the water so cold?" she said, her teeth chattering again and biting into her lip.

"It's not," he said softly. "It's pretty hot."

"Oh." That couldn't be good.

"First time you've come round in an hour or so," he said, his hand at her bicep and gripping harder, his arm behind her neck.

She lifted her chin to look at him, felt her eyes growing heavy. "I'm tired."

"I know. I know. But I think your fever is beginning to break. You want to get back to bed? We can hook up the IV."

"Mm, okay." She spread her fingers out in the couple inches of water in the tub, managed to turn her body towards him. "I'm soaking wet."

He laughed and leaned his forehead against the side of the tub. "Yeah. Yeah, you are."

It must have been much worse than she knew.

Kate lifted her fingers to his head, scratched her nails over his scalp until he let out a long breath.

"Okay," he said finally. "Let's get you in dry clothes and back to bed."

* * *

She grunted and swallowed roughly through the dry heat of her mouth, the scrape of her throat, and opened her eyes.

She was propped on one side, Dr West at her back, cutting out the infected stitches. He had to dig into scar tissue to get at them, and she suppressed a shudder and gripped Castle's hands tighter.

She had refused a shot for the pain. She wanted to feel this. It was her own damn fault the stitches had gotten infected, her own damn fault that her back burned like fire. The grief on Castle's face - her fault as well.

She tugged loosely at his hand and he came up on his knees to be closer, his mouth at the back of her hand, murmuring imprecations and praise alternately into her skin. She swallowed again as the scalpel seemed to hook into her spine itself and yank-

"Got one," Dr West said. "Now for the next three."

Shit.

Castle came in closer, sneaked a kiss to her cheek before settling back on his knees again. She felt the pounding of her pulse in her hands as she clung to him; her knee jerked up when the doctor slid the scalpel under another thread.

Her thighs were quivering, muscles twitching and flexing with every fresh attempt. Dr West warned her with a hand at her shoulder and she tried to hold still, closed her eyes when a knot twisted in her back and came free, dragging long tendrils of pain along her spine and out through her wound.

She gasped and her eyes popped open; Castle was close, acting as a shield, and she knew tears had slipped down her cheeks.

He put his lips to the back of her hand. "Not long now."

"There are more?" she groaned.

Dr West laughed.

* * *

She was going to crush the small bones in his hand.

He didn't even care, if it helped at all. She could break every single bone in his body if it eased any of the agony on her face.

He wished she'd agreed to a local anesthetic, but that wasn't Beckett's style. She was punishing herself for failing, for trying and failing, and she was probably punishing him as well.

For leaving her here so he could go kill Maddox, for bullying her these last four weeks, for being dependent on him, for his father's mind games, for pushing her into her mother's case to begin with, for a laundry list of things he was guilty of when it came to her.

Of all the people in the world, she was the only one-

And still, how he kept hurting her.

How she hurt him.

They did it to each other.

He'd long ago stopped letting Black get to him, and by the time he was a teenager, his mother's abandonment was only a fact on his personal bio sheet. But Kate Beckett had the power to maim him.

Probably end him.

She gasped and he met her eyes, saw the shimmer of agony swim behind her eyes like a parasite. Her back arched and Dr West, behind her, pulled out another knotted stitch.

"That's the last of it. I'm going to leave this open to the air, let the wound weep," he said. "Don't move, don't touch it. I'll be back to pack it."

"Are you stitching it back up?" Castle asked, because clearly Beckett wasn't entirely with it any longer.

"No. The deeper bullet wound has healed. But where the stitches got infected - I'll have to pack it and let it heal from the inside out."

"Thank you, West," he said, loosening his hands from Beckett's grip to get to his feet.

Dr West nodded and allowed Castle to usher him to the door. "I'll be back in five with the packing, give you instructions then."

Castle nodded, thanked him again, and left the door open as West left. He went back to Kate on the bed, sat down near her hip.

"Beckett," he murmured and her eyes opened, blinking slowly.

"Feel bad," she croaked.

"Bet you do." He swallowed and skimmed his hand up the side of her shoulder. She shivered and he stroked the tiny tendrils of hair from her neck. When Dr West had started on her back, he'd scraped her hair into a crooked ponytail to keep it out of the way.

"My bad," she sighed, and he felt her fingers fumble at his waist, hook into his pajama pants. "It's my bad."

"Hey, it's okay. You can feel bad, Kate."

"Not that," she sighed. "My fault. Pushing and not - not letting myself rest and heal, and I just hate this, I hate it but I haven't been fair to you, I haven't been-"

He waited but nothing more came out of her mouth; she had her lips pressed tight and her eyes closed.

As an apology, it sucked. But from Kate, it was earth-shaking.

Castle leaned in and ghosted his lips to her clammy forehead.

"You took a bullet for me, Kate. You can be however you want to be. Just - just don't make it worse. That's all I ask. Don't keep setting yourself back."

When he lifted from her skin, he saw she'd fallen asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Close Encounters 3.5**

* * *

She spent the rest of the night with a hole in her back that Dr West said would need to stay open. He'd gotten a better look at it after they'd washed it clean, and he packed it with strips of something that looked like gauze, but which the doctor had called alginate. He said it should be less painful in theory, but in practice-

In practice, she whimpered in her sleep and woke them both.

"Kate, let me get you another pill," he murmured.

"No, it makes me sick," she said, her teeth clenching. He saw her visibly try to relax, her jaw flexing and then loosening. "Makes me sick and if I vomit-"

"Okay, okay," he said quietly.

"I'll be fine," she answered to an unspoken question that tasted like ash on his tongue. "I'm okay. It'll be fine."

And after a few minutes, she did drift into sleep, but it wasn't easy, and she kept sucking in these tight, anguished breaths, and he'd wake to that pitiful, unconscious whine.

The drugs made her sick, the wound seemed to be burning her up even though he'd repeatedly checked her temperature and she wasn't feverish.

Couldn't win.

He'd have to change the dressing tomorrow night, unpack the wound himself because she wouldn't be able to reach it. The doctor could repack it, but the patient upstairs was in distress, Castle had heard. West might not be able to get back to them.

He could do it. He'd done it in the field on a fellow agent - dug out a bullet and packed the wound with saline-soaked gauze. Field trained to handle that kind of thing, Castle knew he'd be okay doing it, but the pain. . .

He laid there and stroked the hair back from her face as she mewled in her sleep, wracked his brain to figure out a way to help her.

She roused on a groan and startled in the bed; her eyes opened to him. "Woke you, sorry, sorry. . ."

"I'm not," he whispered, stroked his thumb at the weeping edge of her eye. "I'm not. Anything you need, Beckett."

* * *

It was a machine that kept cold water flowing to a pack over the wound.

"This is the most beautiful thing ever," she whispered, her arms drawn up under her chest in bed. She unfurled a finger and caressed the scar at his chin.

"Feel better?" he murmured back, his face so close, so warm and anxious as he watched her.

"Oh, yes." She closed her eyes and then opened them again. "You should sleep next door. I'm keeping you up."

"You are a little whimpery," he said with a soft smile. "But I can take it."

"Whimpery?" she muttered.

"In your sleep, Beckett. But that's okay."

"Why does it have to be open?" she muttered. She could hear the whine in her voice but she couldn't stop it.

"He said it has to heal from the inside out. They'll keep it open until it heals correctly."

"What's in there?"

"Some wound-packing gauze. It forms this gel and soaks up all the pus and stuff-"

"Ew."

"Yeah, it'll start to clump and come apart when it needs to be changed. I'll do that probably tomorrow. But sleep for now, Kate."

She blinked at him in the darkness, the ridged cavity of his scarred chin and the soft oil of his warm skin at her fingers. "I love you," she confessed, entirely without her permission.

* * *

Castle was grateful when she slept through most of the next day. He was able to get some work done on his ballistics requalification, put in some practice time with the sniper rifle, and finally catch up on his email.

His father messaged him and he wanted to ignore it, wanted to throttle the man still, but it was work-related. It was always work-related. When he called it up, he saw it was actually about the funeral.

He groaned and tilted his head back, gulping down the sudden urge to punch something. His hands clenched into fists.

He had to go see about the funeral.

* * *

Black was waiting for him.

Castle paused as he stood beside his Range Rover, saw again that night in the woods and Kate's torn stitches - all this man's fault, but he pushed it down, smothered it.

He strode carefully from the parking lot towards the office - a two-story warehouse in the middle of nowhere, just outside the city. It'd been a lonely drive, and this wasn't where Castle wanted to be right now, but it was necessary. He was doing it for Eastman.

Black stood in front of the metal door, corrugated and closed. Castle wondered if he'd need to undergo some kind of trial by fire to be back in his father's good graces. He found that he didn't much care.

"Were you followed?" his father said.

"No."

Black gave him a long, measuring look. As if he didn't quite believe him. Apparently Castle was on his father's list.

Fine.

"Where's his body?" Castle said, keeping his voice neutral, if a little clipped. He wanted to get this done, get back. It'd been a week. It just took the CIA that long to make up its damn mind.

"This way." Black turned and pressed his ID card to the flat matte-black panel. The light turned green and the door clicked as it unlocked. Black opened it and Castle went inside first, eyes adjusting to the darkness quickly.

The warehouse was - of course - made to look like it was in business. They had to skirt pallets of plastic wrapped auto parts and boxes labeled fragile before they got to the elevator. Castle, out of habit, had his key fob out and against the panel to call for the lift, but the light turned red.

He jerked around to confront his father. "What's this?"

"You're inactive. You know better. And while last time you had Eastman sneaking you inside, that won't happen this time."

His nostrils flared, but Castle kept himself in check, stepped back. His father made a production out of keying the elevator, swept his arm towards it as the doors opened, allowing Castle to go first.

He stepped into the elevator and purposefully kept his hands loose, his shoulders down. His father was looking for a break in his training, his discipline, but he wouldn't find it.

He wouldn't give Black the satisfaction.

"The coffins are all resting in state in the deployment area," his father said, leaning in to press B1.

So Castle was only allowed one floor down. Fine.

Fine.

He would see to the arrangements, pick up the official debrief packet that Eastman's wife would get, and then he'd say good-bye to his friend.

* * *

Castle called to check in with Logan at Stone Farm and heard that Beckett was still in and out of sleep.

So he started the Range Rover and put it in drive, clutched the wheel to focus his thoughts.

He needed to take this to Carrie Eastman; he needed to sit down with her and explain, as best he could, what had happened to her husband.

He maneuvered the vehicle out of the parking space and through the lot, keeping that moment forefront in his mind - the roof, the blistering sun, the hotel sign as the backdrop for Eastman's cover fire. Castle had made it; Mark had not.

Carrie was an accountant; he knew that much. No kids - and Eastman had told him once, _why do that to a kid?_ and now he knew what the man had meant. But now Carrie was alone in that house.

It took forty minutes to reach Eastman's home in a small suburb of New York, a property set back from the road with no close neighbors. Good choice, Castle thought, and realized he and Eastman had probably seen it the same way. Easily defended.

He got out of the Range Rover and the screen door was already popping open, a dog pushing out and down the porch steps, coming to investigate with its owner right behind.

He lifted his hand to Carrie, saw only the silhouette of the woman against the sun, and then dropped down to let the dog sniff him. When the tail slowly wagged, Castle stood again and made his way towards Eastman's wife.

Her face had pink tones but was golden in the summer light, freckles ranged across her nose and cheeks. Her eyes were green and reminded him of Kate.

"Carrie," he said.

"Richard," she sighed, and he saw the tremor in her mouth that she fought to suppress.

He opened his arms and she held herself stiffly but came in for the embrace, her grip fierce.

"You have to tell me the truth," she said, her voice in a rasp. "You have to, Richard. I need to know how it really happened."

* * *

She poured him iced tea and they sat on the front porch with the dog at her feet. A black lab, old but wary, still eyeing Castle from time to time. He shifted forward to put his elbows on his knees and fingered the rim of the glass.

Eastman's home was sacrosanct. Castle had been once and knew it was an honor. He felt it still.

He couldn't lie to her here.

"You know what he was," he started slowly. "Despite what we've always said."

Carried nodded, her blonde hair swishing at her cheeks. "I've never cared. He did his thing, I did mine. It worked for us."

He dropped his hand from the glass, wondered if Kate would be getting this visit sometime in the future, if she'd be explaining them to a man who was practically a stranger to her. It made his whole body heavy.

"He had my back," Castle said finally. "But I failed to have his. He was shot, Carrie. And I couldn't get to him in time."

Her face was like stone as the tears welled up. She didn't cry though; she sat very still with her hands on her pressed together knees and she took slow, deep breaths.

It was all he could say. The details were classified; the case was an open CIA investigation into some serious and dangerous people. Eastman's home was sacred space and Castle wouldn't breach it.

"Did you get the guy who shot him?" she said finally.

"Yes."

Her eyes lifted to his. "Is he dead?"

"Yes."

She averted her eyes and looked to the dog; the lab had lifted its head and was studying her like he knew.

"Thank you for being honest."

"He deserves it."

And then her face twisted with grief and she pressed her fingers into her eyes, her head turning from him. He waited her out because she really _was_ like Kate, and finally Carrie skimmed her thumbs along her cheeks and turned back to him.

"His funeral-"

"It's taken care of. It will be in two days. At a special place. You'll receive a star, and one will go on the wall."

She sucked in a breath, her eyes locking onto his. "CIA?"

Castle paused only a moment before denying it. "No." And it let her know.

"Oh my God. I thought-" She shook her head, then took another breath. "Right."

"The grave will be marked, Carrie, but as our tradition and for your safety, it won't have his name. Usually there's a public funeral-"

She nodded. "Yeah, I-" Her voice broke and her hands clenched into fists. "Another man came by, gave me information about it. It's already set up for the day after."

"I'd like to go," he said quietly. "If you'll have me."

"Of course," she croaked out, her soft green eyes filling as she looked at him.

He swallowed but she kept on, gaining strength, it seemed, the more miserable he looked.

"Of course, Richard. I want you there. He'd want you there. You'll back up his story," she laughed.

He grinned back at that, nodded. "I will."

Sports agent. That had been Eastman's cover - flying all over the place, long absences.

Carried grinned suddenly, a thing of beauty that made his heart catch. "He said you're terrible at talking sports."

He smiled back, felt it in him now, the beginnings of repair. "I am. I know absolutely nothing."

"So you'll just add more fuel to the fire," she said finally, shaking her head at him. "And he'll love that even more."

He really would.

* * *

"I want to go," Kate said.

"Beckett-"

"I'm going. I can walk."

"Barely. And there are two," he said, grilling cheese sandwiches on the stovetop for them. "An official one, and an unofficial one."

"Official for whom?"

His lips twitched. Fine distinction that. "One sanctioned and secret, one for the cover."

"Which one is his wife going to be at?" Kate asked, and he heard it in her voice.

Understood it too. It was the same grief in his own.

"She'll be at both."

Kate let out a long breath and Castle glanced over his shoulder at her. She was curled up in a kitchen chair, her head propped against the spindles, her back to him as she stared out the window. Twilight had crept over the farm.

"That's. . .comforting to me," she said softly.

"What?"

"That his wife wasn't a cover. She's part of the cover, but she's not the lie itself."

He froze, spatula half-turning one of the sandwiches and his heart flipping the rest of the way. "You're not a lie."

She only let out a little breath.

"You're not a cover," he said quietly.

"I want to go to the funeral. Not the secret one. Your father - not the one for your team. That's personal. I understand. But I can be part of the lie, Castle. I can do that."

Maybe she could. In the future. "You couldn't make it through, and you'd have to explain."

"I'm a police officer. My name's been in the paper and on the news, Castle. Esposito sent me a link to an article about it when I was still in the hospital."

"Oh. That's - yeah, we couldn't keep it all a secret."

"So. If anyone does ask about me-"

True. "But you're-"

"If you say _too weak_, I will cut you."

"With what weapon?" he snorted. "Look around, Beckett, think it through. I have the only knife-"

"I'm going to that funeral. Don't try to change the subject."

He fell silent, tried to imagine a scenario in which Beckett with a damn hole in her back might actually survive an hour long funeral.

"I'm going."

Damn it.

"Fine. But you have to let me take care of everything."

"You mean me."

He flipped the cheese sandwich onto a plate and turned around. She wasn't glaring; she was only determined. Her eyes were dark in the overhead light.

"I mean you," he admitted.

"Deal. Now give me my sandwich. I'm starving."

* * *

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and maneuvered the sterile tweezers a little deeper into her back to get at the last of the packing material.

She shivered but didn't make a sound.

"Almost got the last of it. Does it hurt?"

"Fuck, yes."

He couldn't help the flicker of a grin at that, and he could see she was smiling too, despite how awful it must feel to have him digging in a hole for the last threads of alginate.

"Can you - uh - go faster?" she said then.

"Sorry. The light is bad. I have to get it all out and then flush it with saline solution."

"Shit," she groaned, and he saw her hand clench into a fist in the bedsheets.

"After that, I'll repack it and put the ice on it."

"Ohhhh, yes, yes. That beautiful ice machine. Shit, I had wet dreams about that thing."

The laughter startled out of him and she tensed as his tweezers caught the edge of her wound accidentally.

"Sorry," he sighed.

"Just doing what you have to do."

"I'd do it a lot better if you didn't keep making me laugh."

"Laughter is the only thing keeping me going right now, Castle."

"True," he murmured, and finally teased the last piece of sodden material from the wound.

They both let out a long breath and then she chuckled; evidently she could sense how relieved he was that this part was over.

"Okay, time for the saline wash."

"Is it going to get all gross in the bed?"

"That's what she said-"

"Ew," she laughed, turning her head to look at him. He grinned back and she shifted off her side to lie on her stomach. "Maybe better like this?"

"He said on your side, so it runs out."

"Okay," she sighed and moved slowly back.

"I was going to put a towel under you," he said quietly. "But I'll just strip the sheets and get clean ones. The ice machine got everything wet last night anyway."

"This has got to be the least romantic messy bed in the history of our beds, Castle."

"We have a bed history?" he mused, uncapping the bottle of saline.

She grunted when he squirted in the wash, her back stiffening, but she kept up her end of the conversation. "Of course. Yours, mine. The hotel. The army cot at your office. My couch."

"You mean the connubial bed."

"Yes. Conjugal bed. The places we've fuc-"

"Don't make it so crude, Beckett."

"Sometimes it is," she murmured, and her voice was throaty. But probably with pain. He couldn't imagine she was anywhere close to aroused.

"Sometimes it is," he agreed, and began packing the wound with fresh alginate.

She jerked and hissed as it hit the ragged edges, her knees drawing up to her chest.

"I'm so-"

"If you say _sorry_-"

"What? You'll cut me? Right. I'd like to see you try, Beckett."

"Shit, have my threats lost - ah - lost all authority with you?" She sighed out a long breath at the end, her shoulders hunching.

He tried to do it quickly. "Completely unthreatening. I'm not afraid of you."

"That's too bad. I like a man who cowers before me."

"And that, Detective Beckett, is the most atrocious lie I've ever heard out of your mouth."

She snorted but didn't deny it. "Are you done yet?"

"Just. About." He sealed the alginate with the gel and dropped everything back to the tray at her bedside. "There. Done."

She sank to her stomach, her lashes fluttering, and he reached out to brush the hair back from her cheek. Her eyes were swirling green and gold in the lamplight as she fought to stay with him.

He leaned in and brushed a kiss to her open mouth. "Now I'll fulfill your every sexual fantasy."

"Oh, thank you. Ice machine."

"Ice machine."

* * *

She was awake, she was conscious and feeling some returning strength, but she wasn't going far.

She hated it. She despised it. But she needed it.

"Help me," she said quietly.

His help. Damn it all. She needed his help.

He came to his knees in front of her, his hands heavy on her thighs. She clutched the edge of the bed and tried to prove she could do it, upright, standing, all of it.

"Okay," he said finally. "What do you need?"

She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, lifted her hand to stroke up his forearm and clutch his elbow. "A dress. A black dress. Heels."

"No."

"Castle-"

"How in the hell are you going to wear high heels?"

"Flats then," she compromised.

His jaw worked. "Flats. What else?"

"I'll need eye liner, mascara. At least. I have chapstick with me, and even though I look like death-"

"You look alive," he interrupted. "And that's beautiful."

She rolled her eyes at him. "Despite the paleness, my skin's pretty even, so no need for powder or anything."

"All right. Eye liner, mascara, a black dress, flats. That all?"

She nodded.

He leaned in and pressed his lips to her mouth, his tongue suddenly teasing, and she opened to him in surprised pleasure.

He didn't take it far, just rested his cheek to hers with a sighing breath. "I'll be back in an hour, Kate."

And then he left.

* * *

Now with the warm lights of Stone Farm in his rearview mirror, he had misgivings. It was like the moment he was out of range of Beckett, he saw reality clearly once more.

She had no business attending a funeral with a damn hole in her back.

But he stopped at the first shopping center he came to and got out of the vehicle, then he went inside a Dress Barn.

He'd shopped for women before; he was a controlling bully, as she liked to remind him, so of course he'd shopped for women before. But standing in the middle of Dress Barn made his stomach churn.

He'd rather be at Intermix in Soho running his fingers over silk Helmut Lang; he'd rather adorn her in classy and sophisticated rather than. . .this.

There was a lot of paisley.

"Can I help you?" a woman said, approaching on his left with too much lipstick - like a slash for a mouth.

"You may," he replied, couldn't help the slight correction. "My wife needs a black dress for a funeral."

"Oh, my condolences," she murmured, and the strange _honesty_ on her face made his shoulders relax.

He glanced around and noticed one other woman standing at the register, but he was the only customer.

"Sir, is your wife petite or-"

"Not petite," he said, shaking his head. "Tall. But thin - too thin."

Something flashed over the woman's face but she gestured towards the back of the store. "Right this way, sir."

He followed her through contemporary and faddish styles, grimacing to himself at the cheap material and poorly designed outfits. But then the merchandise began to calm, and strangely enough he found himself believing something could be found here that would be more than just suitable.

The necklines were all matronly, though - barely curved, coming up high. He flicked his eyes across the selection the woman was trying to extol and finally grabbed a simple sheath.

"I'll take this."

"What size do you think?"

He glanced at the one in his hand and read the tag, took a long look at the measurements. "Ah, needs to be - this is going to be difficult. She's tall."

The woman pulled out a ten.

"We'll make it work," he sighed.

* * *

He'd bought a sheath dress that zipped up the back. He had let it drop off the hanger to pool on the floor at her feet so all she had to do was step in, but still Beckett fought hard not to sway. She kept her knees locked as Castle bent down and gathered the dress to pull it slowly up her legs.

The backs of his fingers brushed her hips and made her belly flutter, but he drew the material up her torso and paused.

"How do you want to do this?" he said, lifting his eyes to hers.

So blue. So electric. She could see the conflict in him, the urge to hustle her back to bed mixed with some amount of pride that she had insisted on going. She wanted to do this for Eastman, for the sacrifice he'd made to hunt down Maddox and to protect Rick, but she also wanted to do it for the man standing in front of her, helping her dress. The man who had made her grilled cheese sandwiches and taken her riding, who had dug pieces of gross gauze out of her back and bullied her into doing the right thing.

For him. To stand by him for a change.

"Kate?" he said softly.

She nodded. "Good arm first, then the left."

Castle focused on the task with the same intensity she'd seen when he handled a weapon or stalked through a darkened room after a suspect. It was thrilling to be the center of his attention, but it also reminded her of where he ought to be, the job she'd pulled him away from, the danger he was in all because of her mother's case.

She chewed hard on the inside of her cheek to keep from wincing as he moved to her left side and manipulated her hand through the armhole. He drew the dress up her shoulders and then skated his fingers over her neck as he moved behind her to zip it up.

"Will this hurt you?" he murmured.

"Shouldn't," she said. She felt the grip of his fist in the material just at the curve of her spine, and then the tug of the zipper. "Is it zipped?"

"Yeah," he sighed. "It's kind of loose, Beckett."

"But the length is good."

"I was eyeballing it. But I thought maybe-" He circled around to the front to look at her and sighed. "Okay. Uh. Maybe you should look at this."

Kate stepped slowly towards the bathroom and stopped when she saw herself in the mirror over the sink. "Shit."

"I. . .what can I do?" he said from behind her. She felt his fingers pluck at the dress and draw it back, taking it in. "Can we. . .what do you do to make things smaller?"

"Maybe some darts in it. Do we have time for that? The funeral is tomorrow."

"Darts?"

"Sewing, Castle," she huffed, catching his eyes in the mirror. But she'd never actually sewed anything like this. Darts? Hardly.

He studied her a moment. "Or a belt?"

She cocked her head and looked the dress. "A belt?"

"Actually," he murmured, and suddenly his hands spanned her waist. "A loose belt. Wide. Too bad you're not wearing boots-"

"Boots," she breathed out. "Oh. Flat boots, knee-high. I. . ."

Kate bit her bottom lip. It wasn't a fashion show; it wasn't-

"Boots would pull it off," he murmured.

"How do you know so much about women's fashion?" she muttered suddenly, reaching out to catch his own belt. He looked good, she had to admit; he always looked good.

"I pay attention. It's a job requirement."

"Putting together an outfit is _not_ a job requirement of a spy," she snorted. Ouch. That hurt actually.

"It can be." He shrugged at her. "Boots then. Brown boots, brown belt. I can do that. The flats were boring anyway."

Kate felt her lips tugging into a smile and bowed her head. It was a funeral. A funeral. Not-

"You're gorgeous, Kate," he said softly, and she felt his lips at her neck. "I want to show you off."

"Damn possessive bully," she muttered. But she turned her head to him, her mouth grazing his. He pressed a kiss into her, his nose nudging hers.

"Yes, I am. And Detective? Don't think I didn't notice that purple lace underwear you have on."


	7. Chapter 7

**Close Encounters 3.5**

* * *

She woke when he did, felt his warmth leaving the bed. Beckett opened her eyes and watched him disappear into the bathroom.

The CIA funeral for Mark Eastman would be early then.

She heard the shower sputter to life and the whine of the farmhouse's old pipes. Yesterday he'd bought her a dress, made her feel beautiful, desirable, for the first time in weeks. And he hadn't even really touched her; it hadn't been her careless and frenzied need for him while straddling a workout bench.

It was just the look in his eyes as he'd assessed what would make the dress work, and the comment about her underwear - two simple, small things.

But she was such a hot mess, and those two things - his appraisal and his desire - they remade her.

She could do this. She would do this. She'd stop leaning on him for every damn thing, and she'd get stronger, rebuild, make it so that he didn't have to cater to her every stupid weakness. She'd go to the public funeral today and that would be the starting point for her, for them really.

He could go back to the office then. He was inactive, he'd told her, but he could reclaim active status if he put in a little more time. She'd stop being a burden, a wounded bird that he had to nurse back to health, and he could be a spy again - even if it was just a desk job.

Black's warning - that he was in danger - rang through her mind again, but she couldn't help but think that Castle was better off at the company, surrounded by his team and officially reinstated rather than going off on these wild missions alone. Going rogue. Wouldn't he be safer with the full might of the CIA behind him?

Beckett curled slowly onto her side, the pack of ice still attached to the machine and gurgling as it kept the wound cool. She paused to be sure it would stay in place, and then she drew her knees up and waited for him.

His shower was fast; she heard the water shut off again in seconds, and his feet hitting the floor one by one as he got out. She could see his body in her mind's eye, wished she felt capable of doing something about it. Wished she could get out of bed easily and walk in on him drying off, unloose the towel from his hands and-

The door opened.

"Hey, you're awake."

She nodded. "What time's the CIA ceremony?"

"Eight," he said quietly. "Carrie will be there."

"His wife," she confirmed.

He nodded.

"Are you okay?"

He nodded again and moved for the dresser, tugged open a drawer that squeaked loudly in the silent room. She watched him pull out charcoal slacks and then boxer briefs and an undershirt. His skin was cast in pale blue as the morning sun came in through the curtains.

He tugged his pants up and buttoned them; they fit sleek and well-designed. She realized she hadn't seen a bad suit on him, but he had a particularly hard-to-dress body type. Such broad shoulders, narrow waist but firm thighs. And his biceps were thick. No wonder he knew to suggest a belt and boots for that sheath dress; he actually had tasteful and expensive clothes.

He was a _spy_, Kate. International man of mystery. Of course he did.

She watched him shrug the form-fitting undershirt on over his head, his abs clearly defined, his arms so strong.

Shit, it really did it for her. She felt strung out and exhausted even after ten hours of sleep, but he was turning her on just getting dressed.

So not fair.

He came to the bed and put a fist in the mattress, leaning over to brush a kiss at her cheek, glancing off her lips.

"It'll be a few hours. I'll probably go out for drinks with the rest of the team, if you don't mind."

"You should," she answered. "And you don't need my permission, Rick."

He flashed her a half-smile for that, stood back up to head for the closet. His black dress shirt had charcoal grey pinstripes, and he looked both somber and beautiful at the same time. His eyes were a million miles away.

He made her heart hurt.

Castle grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the chair, slid his arms into the sleeves as he looked at her from the foot of the bed.

"Try not to steal a horse again, Kate." He gave her a crooked smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I don't want to come back and have to comb the woods for you."

She sighed, searching for a comeback, but he was already out the door.

* * *

He stood ramrod straight with his team flanking him inside the long, open hall of the CIA's local headquarters in New York City. His father was at a podium near the wall, giving the simple, concise speech over the fallen.

Carrie Eastman was in black just to his right, standing at the front with her hands clutched around the glass case enclosing the Service Star. Ranged alongside her were the family members representing the other two agents Castle had lost in that hotel.

Dominguez had been outside behind the building, guarding the back entrance when he'd been shot once in the base of the skull with his own weapon. His mother was here now, wiping at her eyes with a crumpled white tissue, being silent with her grief.

It'd been Burch, stationed outside the room in the hallway, whose fight with Maddox had given Castle and Eastman the seconds' headstart they'd needed not to become third and fourth victims. Maddox had snapped Burch's neck in a move Castle had seen but hadn't been able to prevent; he'd fired two shots at the assassin even as Maddox used Burch's body as a shield.

And then the race up the stairs, the exchange of gunfire, the door to the roof slamming open as Castle had come out crouched and ready for it.

He'd been careful; there was that at least. He hadn't been reckless with it. But Maddox had the vantage point and he'd known the layout. Probably had the roof scoped for an easy escape.

Eastman, firing from the doorway of the roof, had provided cover as Castle headed for the air conditioning units. In position, Castle had returned the favor.

Too late.

Eastman shot in the chest, gunned down on that hotel rooftop.

The wall of silver stars had long ago exceeded the pattern of fifty made to look like the US flag. Three more were now added as Black read their names.

When the last star was pressed into the marble wall, Castle closed his eyes.

It wasn't just about Beckett's mother's murder any more.

This was war.

* * *

Beckett didn't question him; she knew she wouldn't want to talk, if it was her.

But when he laced his fingers in hers and led her outside, she realized he was going to say something.

She kept quiet, let him lead her through the gate and around the empty pasture. The grass was thick and smelled sweet as it was crushed under their feet. She didn't have the strength to step cleanly, her gait was awkward, but Castle kept the pace easy, didn't push.

She figured the walk was a test, see how far she could go, how long her endurance would last. For tomorrow's funeral.

"We need to talk about what happens when you're allowed back in New York," he said suddenly.

She stumbled and he was there, fingers at her elbow, but even though his touch was light, it still pulled.

She _had_ to be able to do this. Alone.

She straightened up. "New York?"

His fingers gripped hard and then released. "It's not safe for you."

"It's not safe for you either," she grunted, avoiding the fence awkwardly. Her ability to turn was hampered by the pull in her back, but she managed. "But you're not hiding out. Did you forget that Maddox was aiming for you?"

"I'll never forget," he said roughly. "It will haunt me for the rest of my life, Kate."

She sighed, her heart squeezing, and even though it made keeping her balance all the more difficult, she hooked his fingers with her own.

"New York," she started. "When I'm cleared for duty, I think I should be safe enough, Castle. You're the one they think is a threat."

"That may be true, but don't think they won't use you to get to me."

Shit. "Can't let that stop us," she said finally.

"Beckett. I can't lose you too. Not after all of this. All that's been lost."

"Castle," she sighed, wished she could stop and rest but there was no place for it. She didn't know what to say, how to say the things that ought to be said between them after something like this.

"I won't endanger your life," he said quickly, his fingers tightening in hers. "I won't. I was thinking. . ."

"I'm not hiding," she said, knew exactly where he was going with this. "I will not hide out while you go after this guy alone. Bracken-"

"I'm going to take him out of the game," he said. "Cut off the head of the dragon."

She stopped at the fence, stared at him. "What? No. You can't do that."

"It's the only way. I kill him and you'll be safe, your mother's death - Eastman-"

"Castle, no. You can't. A CIA operative taking out an American citizen is _treason_, Castle."

"It's justice."

"That's not justice; that's vengeance."

"It's what has to be done," he said. His hands came to the fence rail at either side of her hips, his body crowding hers. She'd figured out his moves though, and his crowding couldn't bully her.

"Not like that," she said back, poking at his sternum. "That's not what my mother stood for, and I won't let you throw away your life on this-"

"Who said I'd be caught?" He'd turned seductive and charming, trying to get his way. "You do know I'm quite good at my job, Beckett."

She stared at him. "No. No. Not like this. There are rules."

"Rules he bulldozes right through. Bracken _will_ kill you. Or me. Or someone else we love. He sent Raglan for Montgomery, Maddox for me. He won't stop now."

"You can't do this," she groaned. He was such a damn, pig-headed _bully._ He always thought he alone knew best. "You kill him and he'll never have to answer for what he's done."

"If it keeps you safe, if it gives us a chance, Kate Beckett, I will do everything in my power to take out Senator Bracken. He'll answer to me."

"Don't be one of them, Castle. Don't sink to their level. Our integrity is all-"

"I'm not a cop, Beckett. Don't confuse my job with yours."

She lifted her chin, glared at him. "Then be better than this. Be better."

"But I'm not better," he said quietly. "I murder people for a living. This is who I am."

* * *

She'd prove it to him; she would.

He wasn't what he said; he wasn't a murderer. No man could touch her like that and also have coldness in his heart. The way he anticipated her needs, how he relentlessly did what was best for her despite her refusal to see herself clearly - he was good to her, good for her, and she could be good for him. She would be.

If she had her strength, she'd seduce him into obedience, make him beg. If she had any of her usual methods available, she'd make him see, make him understand what he was, what he could be.

Bracken - the bastard - deserved to stand before the city and answer for his actions; the terrible truth had to be known, exposed.

But she was still broken. She couldn't do as she liked, and she knew that.

Still. She'd find a way.

"Dinner?" he said as they came in the front door.

"Yeah," she agreed, her stomach cramping after their fifteen minute walk. "But let me do it."

"Beckett-"

"I can make scrambled eggs, Castle. Watch me."

His smile was slow but it came; he followed her into the kitchen and hovered close by, as if he thought he'd need to catch her.

"Sit," she commanded. She could make him dinner; she couldn't seduce him with her body, but maybe she could with his. Stomach, heart, all that. She had to start doing this alone so that he could get back to his job, get back to making a _case_ against Bracken and not plans to murder him.

Castle hesitated at the counter, watched her for a moment more, and then he turned and went to the table, sat down heavily.

She had months of recovery left, months in which she could slowly change his mind. And she would.

She had to.

* * *

This time when he unpacked the wound and put fresh alginate in the open hole at her back, she was ready for the pain. She was braced.

It still burned, her nerves sang, but she could handle it.

She was silent until he was done and then she drew her knees to her chest and forced herself to sit up. He was watching her like she'd performed a miracle.

"Beckett."

"I'm okay."

He blinked but nodded, and she reached for his hand to stay him.

"I don't need the ice," she said quietly. "Just you. Crawl in with me?"

She saw it cascade in his eyes, a waterfall of emotion. Had he always been so translucent or was it that she could read him so well?

He got out of the chair he'd pulled up beside the bed and stood, his hand shaking hers off only to card through her hair and cup her cheek. She turned her head and pressed her lips to his palm.

"Scoot over, Beckett."

She smiled and carefully eased her body over, her back alive with effort, letting itself be known. She ignored it and waited for him to come.

He'd changed into pajama pants, shirtless in the warmth of their bedroom, and she reached out and trailed her fingers over his shoulder as he came closer.

"Where do you want me?" he murmured, an eyebrow raised at her. She hadn't thought she'd be able to get him to lighten up, cast off his dour mood. But she saw a smile lurking around his mouth. And she'd put it there. By being strong, by covering up the pain and the weakness. She'd done that.

She liked his smile. She'd missed it.

"Lean back," she said, pushing on his chest. Her fingers burned with the heat of him, made her able to pretend that nothing was wrong with her.

When he was lying down, she arranged herself over him, her knee slipping between his and her head over his heart. She heard and felt his long sigh, and then his hand came up to the back of her neck and held her there.

He'd said good-bye to three of his team today. She'd been shot at her Captain's funeral, so she knew something about the weight of a day like this one. She curled her arm up at his chest and stroked her fingers over his sternum, pressed a kiss to his skin.

She would make this right.

Even if she had to align herself with his father to do it, she would keep him from killing Bracken. She would be strong enough to stop him.

* * *

He was right.

She totally pulled it off.

The wide, tan belt made the black dress tuck in just right at her hips, showing off the svelte line of her body and accenting the narrowness of her waist. The boots pulled it together, made her legs sinfully long.

Castle stood behind her, staring at the pale reach of her arms as she smoothed her hands over the dress before the bathroom mirror. He'd seen the anxious way she fretted at the material when he'd first put it on her and she'd gotten a glimpse of it. Even a sack of a dress couldn't disguise how beautiful she was, how her skin was luminescent and her eyes were so alive.

He'd wanted her to feel it too, to look at herself and believe it.

And he wanted her at that funeral. He needed her at that funeral, but he was disappointed in himself for it.

He reached out and snagged his fingers in her hair, curled the strands around his fist, then put his nose to her neck and breathed.

"Castle," she whispered. "Are you okay?"

No.

Her hand came back to his thigh, gripped his hip, hanging on to him. He slid his free arm around her waist, tried not to hurt her, tried not to pull on her. Her skin was warm and burning him through the thin material of the dress.

"Castle."

He sucked in a long, strangled breath and felt her sway. He should insist she stay here; he knew she'd skipped physical therapy just so she'd have the energy to come today. He should do right by her. She needed to heal.

"We have to go," she said softly.

He swallowed hard and lifted his head, loosened his hand from her hair. He should tell her to stay here; he should be man enough to attend this funeral alone.

Kate shifted slowly in the loose embrace of his arm, pressed her hand to his dress shirt, her eyes lifting to meet his.

"Thank you," she said, her voice quiet but strong. "I needed to feel like a human being again."

His throat closed up on all the words he should have said.

* * *

Funerals made him anxious now; his blood was beating hard through his body and every little sound made his head turn. He couldn't stand down from high alert and he wondered how Beckett could look so collected, so effortlessly graceful and poised.

They were standing at the back of eight rows of folding chairs, under a white tent set up at the graveside. He wanted to say something to Carrie, who was at the front taking people's condolences, but he hesitated at Beckett's side.

Maybe they should just sit.

Kate nudged him towards the line forming down the main aisle, nodded her head towards Carrie. He watched her holding her own, her back straight and the pain completely wiped from her face, and he reached out to take her hand. Kate gave him a quiet smile, one filled with determination, and her thumb rubbed over his, sensual and warm.

When he lifted his head, he saw Carrie was studying him. Her eyes were soft and she broke the receiving line to come to them, her arms out when she got near.

Castle allowed the hug, released her with something like relief. She turned immediately to Beckett and attempted the same, but Castle caught Carrie's hands before she could squeeze Beckett's back.

Kate flashed him a narrow look, but Carrie's confusion was all over her face. Confusion and a sense of recognition.

"Sorry," he said with a tight smile. "This is Kate. She was-"

"Shot," Carrie said suddenly, her face blank. "I saw it on the news. About two months ago. Oh my God, Richard, that was you."

Carrie swiveled to him with a look of horror, then gripped Beckett by the hand.

"Me?" he said quietly. Had his presence been reported in the local news? He'd thought his father had suppressed that.

"In the footage. It was you. Detective, you saved his life."

Beckett was grimacing but he nodded. "She did. Carrie Eastman, meet Detective Kate Beckett. The woman who jumped in front of a bullet for me."

Kate pinched the webbing between his thumb and finger with her nails and he jerked, glared at her.

"Good to meet you," Beckett said firmly. "Although I wish the circumstances were different."

Before Carrie could say anything, Castle stepped in closer, kept his voice low. "There's footage?"

"Cell phone video. It's at some distance. The pallbearers taking out the casket - that's what you see first - and then you hear the shot, shots, and then her."

Kate gave him a swift look.

"Her," he repeated, and he could see again the slick slide of life right out of Kate's face as she'd been shot in front of him.

Carrie raised an eyebrow then glanced once to Kate like she wasn't sure she should say.

"Carrie," he said quietly. "Am I on the video?"

"Not your face," she said finally. "I just thought - it just seemed familiar when I saw it. The camera phone must have been behind you. I think they said some teenager, impressed by seeing the ceremony, so many cops-"

"The Sea of Blue," Kate said quietly.

Castle glanced at her face, saw the bloodless tinge to her lips. But he didn't think it was pain, only memory.

He wanted to interrogate Carrie Eastman, find out what the news had been saying about the shooting, find out just what information had gotten past the CIA's careful coverup - or had been purposefully leaked by his damn father.

But this wasn't the time or place.

He made a mental note to check out news footage and leaned in to give Carrie another hug. "I think you're wanted. We'll take our seats."

Eastman's wife turned and glanced towards the front where her parents were standing, along with a few others. He didn't know those people, didn't know any of these people, actually, and he wondered if Eastman had.

Or if they were here for Carrie.

She finally left them with a squeeze of Castle's hand, and he turned to Kate.

She was swallowing quickly, her hands in fists, so he led her to the back row and helped her to sit down.

"How are you doing?" he murmured quietly.

"I'm fine," she said. "I'm okay. Really."

He watched her a moment more and then accepted it, true or not.

"I like her," Kate said suddenly. "I like her a lot."

He nodded, his throat closing and words unable to make it out.

"I can't help think. . ." Kate trailed off.

"What?"

She turned her eyes to him, anguish rooted deep. "Is that going to be me one day?"

He fisted his hands to keep from reaching out to her. "I can't promise that it won't be." The weight of those words made him wretched.

She slid her hand onto his knee and squeezed. "Rick."

He lifted his eyes to her.

She shook her head. "And neither can I promise it won't be you."

Somehow, in some twisted and messed up way, that made him feel better. They both had jobs that could take one of them away from the other.

* * *

Black had sent him the cell phone video immediately after Castle had put in the request. His phone burred with the incoming attachment and he put his hand in his pocket to feel it.

Beckett was in therapy with Dr King when Castle finally pulled his phone out and looked at the message. The video file was shorter than he'd expected, and he knew the CIA guys had gone over it at the time for leads on Maddox, but he couldn't help his sense of horror at seeing just the first still frame of it - the back doors of the hearse and the edge of the coffin.

He couldn't watch this alone. He needed to have Beckett here, somehow, have her touchable. Where he could reassure himself that it was over and she was alive.

But he didn't necessarily want her to have to see it either.

He pushed his phone back into his pocket and decided to wait for the right time, feeling the heavy weight of that video on him. When Beckett left the psychologist's session, she went straight for the barn outside; he saw her sitting in the sun with her eyes closed, and he wondered what she was thinking. Processing. It looked intense.

Castle changed into work out clothes and lifted weights until the task ahead of him receded and he could wipe his mind with the grueling effort of muscle. Beckett would have physical therapy tomorrow, not today because of the funeral, so he put himself through his routine quickly, didn't want her to come looking for him here.

When he was through, he showered in the attached bathroom turned locker room, then he pulled on clean sweats and a tshirt. He scrubbed his hands through his wet hair and rubbed his face, but the specter of that video file had come back to haunt him.

Fuck. He had to look at it. He had to be sure there was no way he'd been made, his cover blown. It was already bad enough that her team knew he was an operative. Ask the right questions and the connections could be made.

It wouldn't just be Bracken after her then. It'd be his enemies from around the globe.

Damn. He had to watch that video.

* * *

She was asleep in bed when he came in after his shower.

Perfect timing.

He couldn't ask for better.

Castle pulled the chair close to the bed and scratched at his jaw, watched Beckett for a moment. On her stomach, lines around her eyes like the pain hadn't left her, even in sleep.

He unlocked his phone and the message was still up on the screen, front and center. The video attachment with the still image made him swallow hard, but he tapped it and let it play.

At first the audio surprised him - loud with the rustle of feet, wind in clothes, the teenager talking to someone. The camera jerked and waved over a sea of police officers, stilled on a few, panned the crowd again. The teenager was being a jackass, rude, and Castle turned the volume down a little, his eyes on the screen.

He pressed a hand to his forehead and watched the camera come to rest on the hearse, the back doors already open. There was Beckett, last in line of pallbearers, her face grim under the brim of her uniform hat. Her white gloved hand twitched against her thigh, the precursor to her movement, but then the shot moved away to include the hearse again, the coffin beginning to slide out.

And then the shot, explosive and jarring in the phone's small speakers, and the camera jerked on a crooked path straight to Beckett, and Castle's back, and her face. Fuck. Her face as he gripped her by the arms, fuck it all, why had he just fucking _held her_ in the path of that damn bullet?

He groaned and closed his eyes, heart pounding too hard, heard the screams and the kid's hoarse yelling, then more gunfire. He pushed open his eyes and saw the camera hadn't faltered, stayed on the two of them even as Beckett was down on the ground - all that could be seen past his own bulk was the white of her gloved hand.

And then another series of shots - when Maddox had been caught, he assumed - and the camera was swerving to follow and then nothing.

His hands were slick with sweat.

"Rick." He felt her fingers tugging at the phone. His hand stopped working and she snagged the phone from him; he lifted his head to see her wounded eyes.

"Kate," he choked out.

"I didn't want you to have see that," she said, her lips pressed. She averted her eyes and moved to sit up, the phone cradled to her chest with her stiff arm. "Shit. I didn't want you to see me getting shot in the back like a coward again. What a fucking idiot I was to just stand there-"

"What?" he gasped, his chest ripping open at the look on her face now. Now. Not in that video, but _here_. Like she was-

"I couldn't even-"

He reached out and grasped her by the shoulders, yanked her roughly up into his arms, tightening his hold around her - alive and warm and struggling against him and _alive._

"You saved my life," he muttered, pressed his mouth to her neck, her cheek, her jaw. "You weren't - shit, you can't possibly be _critiquing_ yourself for that. Inelegant and fucking gut-wrenching as it was - damn it, Kate. What the hell?"

She made a noise in her throat and he realized he was hurting her, had to let her go with a flush of shame, gripping her by her good shoulder to keep her from falling back to the bed. Her face was white with it.

"I'm sorry. I just - I forgot. Kate. God, I'm-"

"I'm fine," she growled, shaking her head. "Fine. Stop apologizing."

But it was still on her face, and he saw now that it wasn't just the current pain, but the image she had of herself as failing. Failing. A failure to him, to herself, over and over. Damn it. He _knew_ she'd felt like that, knew she was covering over some ugly wounds, but he hadn't realized how deep her sense of perfectionism and duty and. . .

What was this?

"Beckett," he said, tried to figure it out, tried to divine her secrets with the calling of her name.

She lifted her head to him with a rueful look. Self-deprecating. Resigned.

Oh fuck.

Love.

She _loved_ him and she'd gotten shot to save his life, but if her love had been better, stronger, faster, she'd not be making him feel so guilty and concerned and worried and-

Fuck.

They were messed up.

He crawled into bed with her because he didn't know what the hell to say to that, didn't know what to do other than what he always did.

He pulled her chest to his and clutched the back of her neck, his phone hitting the floor as he arranged her over himself, and he shut his eyes to it.

He had a thousand stupid things he could say, a million clogging his throat to get out. He flexed his fingers at her neck like he might write his love into her skin itself, but still-

Still he said nothing.

Because it wouldn't be enough.

He had to stop hovering over her. He had to stop worrying and fretting and acting like she'd collapse at any moment. He had to go back to work and leave her alone to heal. She wanted to be strong for him; she felt guilty for his concern, guilty because he loved her too, and all this guilt swimming between them wasn't doing her any good.

He had to let her do this on her own, because she was Kate Beckett. That was how she worked.

He'd known that. At one point, he'd figured that out.

But in his selfishness for her, he'd forgotten. He'd been pickle and mint to her wound; he'd put her on a damn camel and sent her to the wrong fucking embassy instead of being _good_ for her. Instead of being healing.

He could be good for her again.


	8. Chapter 8

**Close Encounters 3.5**

* * *

She paid the price for attending Eastman's funeral, but she paid it gladly.

Castle was like a ghost, disappearing for training and work; he'd gone in to the office, had stopped being wary about leaving her. Beckett slept the week away, waking only when he came in and out of their bed, haunting her dreams.

She was taken to physical therapy by Logan, but she dragged herself back on her own. She didn't eat a whole lot because it took too much energy to fix something, and the therapy was brutal - physical and mental. Other than those excruciating hours with Robert or Dr King, she was on the shimmering edge of unconsciousness.

The hole in her back closed up, faster than she'd expected, and soon Castle wasn't waking her to unpack it. She slept harder, deeper, and the ice machine wasn't necessary. She came out of a long night's rest on a Saturday and opened her eyes.

Sunshine was spilling in through the thick-paned windows, framing the bed in stripes of light. The covers were twisted down around her ankles, kicked off, but the sheet was still laying lightly over her.

She was alone and it was afternoon and she felt alive.

Without thinking - habit or carelessness - Kate pushed against the mattress and lifted herself up, drew her knees up and sat in the puddle made my the sheet around her. She was trembling with hunger, a gnawing in her stomach, and she brushed a hand through her hair to push it off her face.

The silence was as beautiful as the light, and she slid her legs out of the bed and stood.

Wavering still, swaying as she tried to get her balance, she moved easily enough into the bathroom. She had some trouble lifting up again from the toilet seat, but it was to be expected.

Her back ached like a solid bruise, but the active and ragged pain was gone.

Kate washed her hands and dried them slowly on the pale blue towel hanging next to the sink; it was damp and she wondered if that meant Castle was close by. She heard the knock on the door and couldn't move quite as quickly as she expected; she stumbled against the door frame and winced.

"Come in."

Logan opened the door, saw her standing. "Think you're hot stuff walking around, don't you?"

"Hot stuff even when I'm not walking," she shot back, unable to help the grin that stretched her face. She realized that she was only wearing one of Castle's tshirts and gestured for Logan to wait. "Gotta put on some pants."

"That's really not something I want to walk in on," she heard.

Kate glanced up and saw Castle in the doorway behind Logan, and despite the sardonic cast to his words, he looked pleased with her. Like he was proud.

"Hey," she said, stumbling again when she tried to step into leggings. Both Logan and Castle came to help her, and she held up her hands to stay them. "Chill out, boys. I can do it."

Logan stepped back but Castle still hovered. She made a face at him and leaned her hip against the wall to prop herself up, slowly worked the pant leg over her foot and up. She shifted carefully and did the same with the other leg, managed to pull the leggings on while both men watched.

She was used to it.

"Look at you," Logan laughed. "Hot stuff."

"I'll second that," Castle smiled and reached out a hand to her hip as if claiming her.

She was used to that too.

"Ready for PT?" Logan asked.

No, but it was most ready she'd been since the gunshot.

"Lead the way. Castle, you got work to do?"

He smirked, but the tenderness and hope was still burning in his eyes. "Is that code for you don't want me there?"

"You don't need to see me suffer," she said. She came close enough to brush her mouth against his and he was smiling now, smiling at her in that pure and bright way.

Logan was slipping out into the hallway to wait for her, so she took a moment to bask in the relief Castle seemed to pour out over her.

He leaned in and gave her a loose hug, and his lips came to her ear.

"Never want to see you suffer, Kate. I'll leave you to it."

* * *

"I'm naming you Fezzik," she groaned.

Robert, her physical therapist, laughed and took her wrist, then pushed her arm slowly away from her side, her shoulder rotating. "The giant brute from 'The Princess Bride' movie?"

"Yes," she grunted, closed her eyes through it.

Fezzik, as he would now be called, kept her arm out from her side, counting slowly to ten, and then let it come back to her chest. She panted through the excruciating needles of agony, wondered how many synonyms for pain she'd thought of in the last hour.

"I like it," he said then and reached for her elbow once more.

"Oh no," she moaned.

He lifted her elbow away from her side and she cursed, body trembling and a sweat breaking out over her forehead, down her back.

"You'll get frozen shoulder," he reminded her, even as he moved her arm. "Stop complaining. You did it to yourself."

"I know, I know," she chanted. "I know. Okay, shit. Okay."

He didn't catch her when she swayed, unlike Castle who was always steadying her, holding her up, and Kate had to grit her teeth and clutch the edge of the table to keep herself upright. Her ab muscles kicked in finally, accompanied by the flare of fire that wrapped around her back and inched up her spine.

And today had seemed like it would be such a good day.

"Too much," she gasped out. "Too much. Can't."

"It's not," Fezzik remarked dryly, a fucking _laugh_ in his voice. "You can take it."

She wanted to hit him. That would require a range of motion she didn't have and a strength that was draining out of her by the second.

The physical therapist got her elbow parallel to her shoulder and left it there, two fingers under her bent arm, and then he wrapped his hand around her wrist.

"No, no, please," she moaned, but he straightened her arm, her elbow unhinging, until she was holding her hand palm up and her body was trembling.

"Now hold it," he said. "Hold it right there. Because you're pretty terrible at this, and I can tell you're not doing your exercises, are you?"

But she was so exhausted after his sessions that she couldn't stay awake. When was she supposed to be doing the exercises?

She cursed him solidly under her breath, not even able to give voice to it as she squeezed her eyes shut and kept her arm lifted, blades of ice cutting into the stiff set of her shoulder like she was being butchered.

"Very good, Kate. Very good, look at that," Fezzik said.

She opened her eyes in stunned surprise.

"Did you just - tell me I did good?"

He growled and frowned at her, surly again. "Not likely."

"You did," she accused. "You just _praised_ me."

"Don't let it go to your head. I'm sure you'll do something foolish again before long, set us both back another two weeks. Ride a horse. Climb a mountain. Something."

* * *

"Wretched," she said.

Logan chuckled. "That's a good one. Today's?"

"Yes," she groaned, pressing her nose into the sweaty plastic of the physical therapist's table. "Today's synonym."

"Yesterday's was better."

"Why?" She wasn't sure she really remembered yesterday. She'd been in and out of it.

"Because you are."

She wracked her memory and finally- "Irritated?"

"Uh-huh." Logan moved around to where she could see him now, standing at her head. "You ready to go?"

"No." She turned her cheek to the table and sighed. "Give me a minute."

"Did he give you the ultrasound therapy?"

"Yes," she hummed. It felt less terrible with the soundwaves loosening everything up. She wanted to bliss out on the table.

Logan sighed. "Fine. I've got upstairs duty in fifteen minutes, so I'll leave you here. I'll come and get you in an hour, Beckett."

She'd say thank you but she was already falling asleep.

Logan pulled the sheet up over her before he left.

* * *

Castle found Logan just outside the physical therapy room. The man jerked his head towards the door and Castle stepped past him and inside.

Beckett was asleep on the table, one arm curled up at her chest, her mouth open, hair in a sweaty mess around her face. The surprising pleasure of finding her up and walking around just a few hours ago was sublimated into the sight of seeing her worn out again, asleep.

She'd spent nine days sleeping off and on after going with him to the funeral. He was glad for it, because it meant she was healing, but he missed her. Of course, he'd been at the office or doing training himself, so it wasn't like he didn't have things to do.

He was supposed to be leaving her alone.

Castle came to her side and slid his hand to her lower back, left his palm at her waist. He rubbed his thumb over her ribs, the solid and hard rise of her bones under her skin, and he was grateful.

Dr West said she needed to start using her full range of motion, needed to start doing things normally again. A couple months and a scary infection later, the bullet wound had healed nicely, though the scar was angry and puckered, and all that remained was the work of tendons and muscles being put right again.

She slept hard after physical therapy, so Castle cradled her head with one hand and slid his arm under her shoulders, then looped the other behind her knees and picked her up. Her head rolled to his chest and her mouth opened, but she didn't wake.

He carried her to bed.

* * *

"I hate you," she groaned. The water running in the bathroom sounded heaven-sent.

He laughed and came back into the bedroom for her. "You need help getting out of those clothes, Detective?"

"I really hate you." She couldn't and he knew it. He had to know it. Physical therapy wiped her out so much that she could barely move.

"That's no way to speak to your personal valet," he murmured, getting to his knees in front of her. He leaned into the bed and braced his hands against the mattress at her hips, his mouth at her chest but his eyes on hers. "Now, is it?"

"What?" she murmured, couldn't remember what they were talking about.

"You just said you hate me."

"Oh, I do," she whispered, bringing a hand up to cradle his cheek. "Hate you so much."

No, her voice wasn't breaking. No. It was just exhaustion.

He lifted up to press a kiss to her mouth, his tongue slow and sure, his hands coming to her waist while she was distracted by his lips, his breath, and then she realized his fingers were skimming up her sides and tugging off her shirt.

She blinked as her hair fell back down around her face and his grin sprang to life. "Look at that. Got you topless."

She could hear by the tone and pitch of the water rushing into the bathtub that it was nearly done - her first bath fully immersed and she was so very ready.

"I really hate you," she gruffed back, bitting on her lower lip as his fingers teased the skin at her waist.

"I know you do," he said, his voice throaty and rich. "Hate you too, Beckett."

* * *

"Does it hurt?" he said quietly, kneeling beside the tub.

"Yes," she sighed. "But I'm not moving. You can't make me."

He grinned and lifted his hand from the water to start a trail of droplets over the island of her shoulder. She shivered and sank lower into the bath, ruining his art, but her fingers rose to the surface to flick water at him.

"Leave me alone. I want to drown in here," she sighed again.

Castle laughed, leaned in over the rim of the bathtub to kiss that pouting mouth. He could feel the tension she still carried and stroked a loose hair back into her bun. "Not long, Kate. I don't think you should push it."

"Just long enough, okay? Long enough," she murmured, her eyes already closing.

"We'll see." Castle lifted up from the floor and heard his knees pop, grimaced when her eyes flashed open.

"Wow, old man. I heard that."

"I hate you more," he muttered and turned to leave her there. "Maybe you really will drown."

"Wouldn't give you the satisfaction of getting to revive me," she called to him.

Castle laughed and left her to it.

She deserved the privacy, after all this time with him hovering over her, _having_ to hover over her as she bathed. She deserved the chance to be alone.

Even if now he didn't know what to do with himself.

* * *

The bath had been a mistake. Finally without stitches, she'd expected to be able to take it, but her chest ached with every breath and she didn't think she could call out to have him come help her.

Shit, the bath had been a stupid idea.

She kept her breathing shallow and closed her eyes, kept her feet against the end of the tub for balance even though that hurt too. She really might drown in here. She could, so easily, if she didn't have the strength in her legs to keep herself pushed up.

She swallowed through it and cleared her throat. "Cast-"

He was there in a moment, coming through the doorway like he'd been sitting on the floor just out of the range of her vision, waiting for her to open her mouth.

"Castle," she said, breathless, and he was immediately leaning over the tub and hooking his arms at her neck and her knees to draw her out. "I'm - now you're soaking wet."

"So what." He snagged a towel with his fingers as he passed and carried her into the bedroom, laid her down gently. She shivered and hissed as a bright agony flared through her chest like a lance. "Kate. Shit. I should've gotten you sooner."

"No, no," she muttered, closing her eyes and pushing against the mattress to lift up. He wrapped the towel around her quickly, started rubbing at her arms, crowding in close. "No, I'm okay. Just tired. Pushed it a little, but it will be fine tomorrow."

"You want some of that prescription advil?"

"Yeah," she mumbled with a nod, drawing the towel closer around her shoulders and falling back to her pillow.

"You need to sit up for this, love." His fingers were at her neck, a tight grip as he tugged her upright.

She opened her eyes and took the pills from him, the glass, and swallowed them down with the water. "Thanks."

"Let's get pajamas on you."

"Can't I sleep like this? Come crawl in with me and let me sleep like this."

"Kate. You'll freeze when the air conditioner kicks on."

"You keep me warm," she muttered, drawing a knee up to dig under the pillows for the covers. "Why'd you make the bed? That's stupid. I'm in this dumb bed all the time. It should be permanently unmade."

"Logan made it when he changed the sheets, sweetheart."

"Fuck you say?" she groaned, turning her head to him on a wince as slivers of pain danced through her. "Sweetheart? Shit."

"You're tired, little bit drugged, though I didn't know it worked that fast-"

"It doesn't. Just tired. Sorry. I curse when I'm tired. Just crawl in the damn bed, Castle. I'm cold."

He stopped resisting her and finally helped her, pulling the covers down and maneuvering her to get settled. He finally let her curl up at his side, his hands careful at her shoulder and her waist, and his mouth pressed into her hair for a gentle kiss.

She was already spinning off into sleep, her body warm and heavy and drugged. Before she could get too far gone, she remembered what she'd wanted to say.

"Don't know why you fought me. Thought you'd love a chance to cuddle with me naked."

"Beckett," he laughed, and she felt it shimmy in her back and release her pain, like shaking a pine tree and watching the needles drop. "Love. It's the middle of the afternoon."

"You got something better to do?"

"No. Never."

* * *

Her body was pressed against his, her bare skin to his clothes, and he found he had to close his eyes and mentally fieldstrip and reassemble his Ruger Mark. The gun had always been the most difficult, although the strong recoil spring on the Astra 400 had given him fits too, but with practice, the Ruger wasn't that bad. Just had to remember the sequence.

Only problem with thinking about his weapons was that it didn't exactly _keep_ him from getting aroused. It only put thoughts in his head about Kate Beckett tearing down something like a Desert Eagle and needing his help to turn the bolt just right-

Fuck.

Not helping.

Now that Beckett was regaining her strength and pushing it again, now that the stitches were out and she was running her mouth and being saucy and smirking, his lust was driving him crazy. It was like he'd been given permission to actually _see_ her body again, and yet he still had to touch it with gentleness, with reverence and care. Offering help and not-

Castle swallowed hard and tilted his head back on the pillow, couldn't stop himself from running the tips of his fingers down the back of her arm to her elbow, curling there.

She breathed slowly against him, and he trailed his fingers up to press his palm to the back of her neck. She still had her hair in a messy bun and her mouth was open at his collarbone, warm, moist breath teased his skin. He could see his own hand under the sheet as it moved down again, skimming her back, tripping so very lightly over the scars and down to the curve of her spine and the rise of her ass.

This was so wrong. Feeling her up in her sleep.

But shit. Shit, he was going crazy. He wanted her so badly and it took everything in him to not let her see it, to be cool, be calm, be the man she needed him to be right now.

So while she slept, he kept touching her, used both hands now to stroke her soft skin, still slightly damp from the bath. He traced the lone strand of hair that had escaped and then went farther - teased his way down her arms, along her sides, the flare of her hips.

Heaven.

He stopped there, his mouth to her forehead, breathing hard, trying to control himself again.

He gratefully slipped out of bed when she started shivering in her sleep, grabbed a clean tshirt from the stack of laundry on the dresser. He wished he'd thought to get her a robe; it would make this easier.

He had to lift her up a little to tug the shirt on over her head. She woke and seemed startled, confused, but he'd noticed that the pain reliever did that to her when she was woken in the middle of its potency.

"What?"

"Back to sleep, sweetheart."

Her lids crashed down and he managed to maneuver her arms through the holes and lay her back in bed. It was only two in the afternoon, but curling up with her actually seemed enticing. He wanted to; he really did.

Spend the afternoon in bed with her.

He'd be torturing himself, but he didn't even care.

Castle hovered over her a moment, memorizing the sharp and devastating lines of her face, and his heart twisted in his chest.

He needed her. He needed her.

He was about wrung out with holding back.

He should get out of here and just let her heal. Stop being an asshole.

_Leave her alone, Richard._

* * *

Her ribs ached from lying on her stomach for so long, but now that the infection had cleared and the stitches had come out, she was ready to turn over.

New leaf, sure, but _in bed_. She wanted to not be trapped. She wanted freedom of movement and the ability to roll out of bed and walk away.

That might not happen yet, but she was so close. Yesterday had been a good day until the physical therapy had wiped her out. And then she'd taken a bath and that really hadn't helped either. She'd gone to bed at one or two in the afternoon and was only now waking up.

Castle was gone again, training or shooting. He'd promised not to leave Stone Farm other than a visit to the office, but she also knew he'd break that promise in a heartbeat if he thought it meant keeping her safe, protecting her. The imbalance in their relationship right now was driving her insane.

She wanted out.

Of here. Not out of the relationship.

No, she was afraid she couldn't quite survive that - not having him.

Beckett got a hand under her shoulder, tested it. She pushed up, letting her body roll to one side, trying to keep in control of the movement.

When her back hit the mattress, she tensed, sucking in a breath. It ached but-

she could survive it.

She kept still, her eyes closed, and tried to distract herself with the sounds of Stone Farm waking around her. The horses were already out to pasture: their teeth nipping at each other and their hooves against the grass. She could sense the warmth of the sun too, already ripe with heat even so early this July morning, and it came in the window and soaked the foot of the bed.

Logan would be by in a few hours to bring her to physical therapy, and then bring her back here to recover in teeth-gritting silence. At some point she'd find the strength to shower and dress. Castle used to stay and make her a late breakfast, scrambled eggs and toast, maybe sausage if he wanted some - she never ate it - and then they'd walk the Farm.

She should do that alone, if he didn't come in today. Shower, dress, breakfast. A walk in the sun if she could. Sit beside the barn and let the day fall over her and away.

Horses were off-limits still. She didn't have the core strength to sit upright and the horse's gait jostled her back. She was close; she could feel herself getting better. The fever had burned some clarity into her, had tempered her.

The sick and rotting parts of her had been cut out along with those gangrenous stitches, and she knew now what she had to do.

Stick with the program. It worked for Castle, had always worked for him. And it was working for her as well. These people were the best in their field for trauma recovery; she'd accomplished worse than nothing when she'd gone at it on her own.

She opened her eyes to the morning.

* * *

He got in late, eight-thirty, and the sun was setting in his eyes as he drove the last of the gravel road to the Farm. He came upon Beckett in the kitchen, startled to a stop when he saw her, then realized she was asleep. Her head was in her arms on the table, her mouth open, that beautiful golden light tangling through her hair. He was thick with sweat and dirt, fresh from a three-hour ropes course at the qualification center, but he ached to touch her.

He came closer, a hand hovering over her head before dropping into her hair at the back of her neck, fingers sinking into the soft warmth. The level of the table put her head at his hips and his blood surged through his body at the sight of her. He clutched a fistful of her hair and fought against the urge to pull her against him.

He had to stop. He had to stop.

Castle let go and took a step back, breathing hard, and then he left her in the kitchen to sleep.

He needed a cold shower and then maybe another three days of training. Beat it out of him.

* * *

Beckett moved stiffly across the wooden floor, every board creaking as she went. Walking was labor-intensive, but she felt better than she had since the good drugs in the ambulance ride here. And that was saying something.

Maybe it was because she could marginally lift both arms over her head, maybe it was because her session with Fezzik - the meaty Andre the Giant-inspired physical therapist had actually _praised_ her effort again today - or maybe it was just finally having the freedom to move, albeit slowly, down the hall without help.

Without his help. Castle's.

Because he'd finally gotten the message that she didn't want or need his help in this arduous recovery process. At least, not the way he wanted to give it: ordering her around, setting her schedule, carrying her to therapy sessions, double-checking her doctor's orders, and in general being the rigid and uncompromising bully he was.

But more than that - she didn't need him feeling so damn guilty over her, like she'd break, like she'd fall apart if he breathed wrong. He'd stopped touching her too, which sucked, but she wasn't exactly attractive when she was sweating with the effort to sit up or biting his head off for trying to help.

Of course, sometimes he could still be sweet. Yesterday he'd shown up with a strawberry milkshake and they'd shared it at the table. And when he gripped her elbow as her strength failed - that was fine. It was all the rest - the super spy part of him - that she wanted to throttle.

She'd had a few weeks now without him hovering at her side, and already she felt like a new person. She'd even missed him a little bit.

And was she smiling?

Kate took a deep breath of old wood and lemon polish, let herself admit that maybe, yes, she was smiling again.

Beckett opened their bedroom door, intent on making it the last two feet without wobbling for balance, and she realized he was here. She sank to the bed gratefully, let the complaining muscles in her abs and legs ease, and slowly fingered the hem of her tshirt.

The shower was running; the bathroom door was open about three inches and she could smell the rich scent of his soap, hear him splashing as he rinsed.

She wanted a shower after that session, maybe even a bath. Her body was on the fine edge between energy and exhaustion. She could go either way.

She'd lifted both arms today; if she worked carefully, she'd be able to to get her tshirt off over her head all by herself. Kate bit her bottom lip and slid the fingers of her right hand across the bare skin of her ribs, felt the sweat drying.

Yeah, she could do it. She could. This would be a good test.

Kate used her right side only, taking the sleeve down her left arm, grateful that she'd allowed Castle to dictate her wardrobe again. His oversized tshirts were so much easier for her to get on and off herself, and while she missed all of her beautiful clothes, this was what she could manage.

Beckett took a deeper breath as she worked the hem up her back, and then she tugged it over her head with one hand. Her hair fell out of its messy pony tail and tumbled around her shoulders in sweat-curled ribbons, and then she was drawing his tshirt down her arm and off.

A groan met her ears and she lifted her head to the open bathroom door, found she was being watched.

Castle was in the shower, the water sheeting over the taut lines of his shoulders, the curtain pulled not quite closed, and she could see the long arrow of his body before it disappeared into the steam.

Her breath caught at the nakedness in his eyes, the longing, and she knew he wanted her, could tell by the desperation that moved across his face.

Only the right side of his body was visible, and the tub came to his shins, but she let her eyes wander along the thick ridge of his abdominals, the sharp cut of his hipbone, and back to the lust in his eyes.

So that was why he'd stopped touching her, stopped sticking around.

Kate stood, dropping the tshirt to the floor, clearing her throat as she came inside the bathroom. She felt the steam billow out and caress her skin.

Castle let out a needy sound and tilted his head back, water washing down his face, over his shoulders and chest.

"Castle," she said, shivering as his head snapped down to look at her. "You thinking about me?"

"Yes," he choked out. "Kate."

Her mouth went dry.

"Let me help," she whispered.

"Just keep talking," he growled back.

* * *

She breathed hotly against his shoulder in their bed and tried to find the messy, scattered remnants of her brain, but it was no use. She was done.

He flexed his arm under her and she shivered, but she couldn't even lift her head to glare at him in warning. Her body had finally quit.

"The second you're all the way healed," he muttered, reaching down her back to snag the sheets and pull them up over her sweat-cooled skin. "The very second, Kate Beckett, we are doing this right."

"Oh, yes, please," she murmured into his shoulder.

"That's right," he growled, turning his body into hers suddenly. She felt him over her back, his mouth at her neck, his fingers trailing down her spine, so careful and so concerned, but also-

Also-

Oh.

"That's right," he murmured again. "You'll be begging."


	9. Chapter 9

**Close Encounters 3.5**

* * *

He was half-ashamed of that performance, his inability to control himself when he'd caught sight of her stripping off her clothes in their bedroom while he showered. But she'd seemed as restless and ready as him, and well. . .

Castle swallowed hard and eased out of their bed, swaying on his feet as his arm throbbed with renewed circulation. They'd fallen asleep, but he'd woken some time ago, let himself be stupid and ridiculous and in love and just stare at her. Creepy staring. She would roll her eyes and shove him out of bed herself if she'd woken up and found him doing it.

So he'd pushed himself out of bed instead and now stood in front of the dresser and searched for clean clothes.

He'd had so many things he'd needed to do this afternoon and it was nearly nightfall. She'd be asleep until tomorrow morning, most likely; he'd seen what physical therapy took out of her. So he wasn't concerned about her waking to find him gone.

Castle pulled on cargo pants and laced up his boots, found a clean black tshirt to tug on over his head. Kate's clothes were still scattered in a trail towards the bathroom where just the sound of her voice-

He grunted and put that thought, that memory, out of his head.

He had things to do.

* * *

Eastman's will and estate had been settled quickly; the one advantage of working for the government was their ability to rush things through bureaucracy when it was to their advantage. Carrie had left him a message about wanting to give him something, and now it was late, but he went anyway.

She came to the door of the front porch with moonlight on her bare shoulders and shadowing her clavicles, her tank top and shorts rumpled.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, scraped a hand down his face. "I woke you."

She shook her head. "I've been sleeping too much. Can't sleep now. I'm all messed up, Richard. Come on in."

She pushed open the screen door and he saw the lines on her face, the hollow darkness under her eyes. Post-funeral and it was beginning to settle in, wasn't it? He knew that look.

"You called me, Carrie?"

"Hm? Yeah, yes. I did. Mark left you something," she said, running over his name quickly like she was afraid to say it.

He followed her through the creaking kitchen and she didn't turn on any of the lights. Just hunched her shoulders and kept moving, and he realized, knew the signs from Kate Beckett, that Carrie Eastman was crying and trying not to let him know.

He stood carefully behind her while she fumbled with an antique hope chest, her hair swinging forward and hiding her eyes. Castle made sure he wasn't close enough to see anything, made sure she kept her privacy until she was ready.

She messed around in the hope chest for longer than she needed to, but when she stood up again, her eyes were only red-rimmed. No tears. She was holding out a book, wrapped loosely in a kind of cloth.

"He left this to you. Did you know he'd written me a whole bunch of letters?"

"What?" he said dumbly, reaching out for the book. It was old, like a family bible, thick with dust and heft. "What letters?"

"They're beautiful. And funny, and sweet, and he dated them. For me to read in the future," she said, swiping at her cheek preemptively, but nothing fell. "I don't know if I'll be able to resist. I might just read them all tonight."

"He wrote you letters?" He'd never figured Eastman for such a romantic, but now that the idea was in Castle's head too, he wanted to write things for Kate, letters and stories and poems and beautiful things for her to have always. For her to have in case of a time like this.

"That's how I discovered he wanted you to have it. Well, he didn't say it like that, but he thought you'd get a kick out of it. It's his family's ancestry. All their stories."

Castle glanced down at the book, the cloth already slipping off and wrapping around his wrist. He opened the tome and saw it was even illustrated, that it was filled with ink and the stories were crowded on the page, marginless.

"Oh no," he breathed out. "I couldn't."

"You can," Carrie said quietly. "I don't have any interest, and he told me things about his family that have turned out to be lies, Richard. He didn't have much need for roots. But he said you-"

Castle swallowed and felt his fingers grip the book.

"He said you might need roots. And while these are his - and did you see? His name wasn't even Eastman, Richard. How was I ever-"

She cut herself off, shaking her head and running her hands through her hair, giving a dark chuckle. "He's telling me things in these letters that I just. . .I think he wrote each one after you two did some mission. There was something about a flight over the English channel and a bomb that wouldn't go off-"

"You probably shouldn't repeat that," he said urgently, stepping closer to her and bringing the book against his chest. "They'll take those letters if-"

She closed her mouth tight and stared at him.

He nodded. "Don't say anymore. Keep them somewhere only you can find."

She pushed on the book, nudging him towards the door. "Take his book of family stories. I like my mysteries revealed slowly, letter by letter."

* * *

Kate woke disoriented in the darkness, jerking and twitching only to hear the soft chuckle of a male voice that was _not_ Richard Castle.

She froze, the movement of her muscles spiraling pain through her back, but the voice came out of the darkness.

"No, no. Don't get up, Ms Beckett."

Fuck, his father. Her heart was pounding so hard she could barely breathe.

"I came here looking for my son."

Castle wasn't? - she was alone with just this damn shadow of a man she couldn't even see. "Castle's not here."

"Imagine my surprise when I discovered that little fact. It's eleven o'clock at night, Ms Beckett. Weren't you supposed to be holding him here? Keeping him safe?"

Shit, her body ached fiercely. "No, I don't - how in the hell do you think I can keep him anywhere? He's a spy. He does as he likes."

"This was your only job."

She growled and turned over in bed, remembered too late that she wasn't wearing any clothes. His father took a long moment to peruse her breasts shining in the moonlight of the bedroom and she'd be damned if she covered herself up like she was embarrassed. The bastard.

"Ah, I see. Fucked you and left-"

And then suddenly from the doorway, the flash of a deeper shadow and movement. "You get the hell out of here," Castle growled, laying hands on his father and yanking him up.

She grabbed for the sheets and grit her teeth through the pain, felt the skin at her back stretching taut, but she ignored it to cover up. Castle was shoving on his father, pushing him back, and she got a leg out of bed and snatched the sheet tighter around her.

"Castle-"

"You fucking leave her alone," he snarled, standing at the foot of the bed with his father nearly to the door.

But Black stood his ground. "I don't plan on _fucking_ her, Richard. I wouldn't have her. Sophia was a movement on a chess board, but it's not a play that can be oft-repeated if I want the same results."

"You get the fuck out of here-"

"You, Richard, need to stand down before you do something you'll regret. You never checked in this afternoon; you have responsibilities, even from your girlfriend's sick bed, and I won't allow you to forsake them."

"You don't get to come here. You don't get to touch her, or look at her, or _talk_ to her. You wanna fuck someone up, you do it to me. I'm used to it."

"Check in when you're supposed to. Do your job. That, Richard, that is all I'm asking of you. I don't even mind you getting the bitch out of your system-"

And then Castle punched him.

* * *

Kate was naked and pushing against his chest and it was the only thing that drove him back, cleared the cold fury from his head and made him see again.

"Beckett," he growled, his hands coming to her shoulders.

"Castle, Castle, you have to stop, you have to stop-" she was saying, her body struggling against his.

He jerked back, bringing her with him, and saw his father panting in the doorway, fists up and a slick of blood down his nose, running from his lip. He had a ringing in his ears that meant Black had defended himself.

"Kate, you're naked."

"Shit, Castle. Least of my worries at the moment," she growled, but she shoved him back again and reached down for a tshirt.

His hands came up automatically to help and he saw the busted knuckles and blood, the places where his skin had split. His head throbbed, his ribs ached.

He'd punched his father and then-?

"Castle," she said quietly, shimmying into one of his tshirts and then pushing him down on the bed. He sank into it with a bounce, blinked hard to clear his head.

He glanced down at his hands and flexed his fingers, winced.

"You need to leave," Kate said sharply. He looked up and saw her stalking towards Black and his panic crested. He jumped up after her, looking to follow, but she was shutting the door in Black's face and turning to him instead.

He swayed and she grabbed for him, both of them grunting. "I'm hurting you," he muttered, even as he hurt himself, and she snorted and guided him back to the bed.

"Sit down and let me look at your hands, you big idiot."

She disappeared into the bathroom and the moonlight was playing havoc with his sense of space. He wanted to stand up and find her; he needed to tell her, explain, something.

Kate came back with a washcloth and bandages, the same sterile gauze he'd been using on her, and he blinked up through the beams of moonlight to look at her.

"I don't want him talking to you," he said quietly when she came close.

"Not much you can do about that, Castle." She spread out his fingers over his knee and traced the broken lines of his skin.

"You think I can't? Watch me," he growled.

"Don't act like a child," she muttered. "You didn't have to hit him. I'm a detective with the NYPD. I've been called much worse." Her touch was gentle though, her hands cradling his.

He swallowed down his fury and his indignation because she was right. She was right and he used to pride himself on never rising to his father's bait.

"He did it on purpose," Castle sighed, closing his eyes. "He wanted to see how far he could push me about you. And he's trying to prove to me that you make me weak. Fuck. How do I keep letting him get to me?"

"It's my fault," she said quietly, dabbing at his knuckles with the cold cloth. "It's because of me."

"No-"

"Yes," she insisted. "I'm not stupid. You'd managed to skate along quite nicely before I showed up; you stuck to his plan for you."

"Fuck his plan. You're my plan, Beckett. You. You're not just someone I'm getting out of my system. Not my cover story, my lie. You're everything."

She curled her fingers around his, the washcloth wet between them. "Let me finish talking, super spy. I don't care if he thinks I make you weak. I'm selfish enough to want you anyway. Even if I do make you punch out your father or get stabbed to save my life. Black can say whatever the hell he wants, I'm not letting you go. You're my plan too."

He clutched at her ministering hands and hooked an arm around her neck, brought her down into his lap. It wasn't really very fair, because she was exhausted and off-balance and her back was still healing, but he didn't care. He wrapped his arms around her and slid her leg over his thighs so that she straddled him.

"I love you too, Beckett."

She sighed into his neck but stayed close.

* * *

Her fingers traced at the edges of his jeans, ran along the bruises at his ribs just beginning to form. He shivered under her hands and she couldn't help rocking her hips a little into him.

"Fuck, you can't," he groaned.

"Makes you want me?" she murmured.

"All the time," he gruffed out, his breath hot and quick against her temple.

"Makes me want you," she murmured.

"I'd hurt you," he said quietly back, something mournful in his voice. "I wouldn't be able to control myself and-"

"I know," she sighed, kissing the side of his jaw and nibbling, unable to help it even though it made his thighs clench under her. "I'm sorry. I'll stop."

He pressed his forehead to her and she felt the thin edge of the scar at his back and side where the knife went in only five months ago - it had only been March, and then Montgomery's funeral in May, and now they were in August and the summer was nearly gone.

She ran her fingers over the scar, remembering the office building and the shattered glass around them, Coonan shot dead at their feet, and Beckett herself being dragged away from Castle's bleeding body.

The memory still woke her at night, shaking, voiceless in her anguish. She knew he dreamed of her being shot, but she had no memory of it really. It was the knife in his back and the glee in Coonan's eyes when he'd done it - that was what got to her.

"I'm tired," he breathed out against her. "I know you are too."

She nodded and stopped stroking the scar, brought her arms between them to curl up at his chest. She wanted him but she couldn't have him; her damn body wouldn't let her. But soon. Oh soon.

For now-

"Sleep," she murmured at his neck.

"Crawl in with me," he whispered back, even though she was already right here, even though she was in his lap.

"Yes," she answered, and he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and brought her down with him into the bed. Their legs tangled and his breathing hitched when her elbow got his bruised rib, but she managed to adjust them both until neither of them were in much pain.

He sighed, long and slow against her temple, his body easing at her side, half under her. She stroked his neck, the rough patch of scruff at his jaw, and then kissed his shoulder.

"You'll have to apologize to him tomorrow," she said softly.

"I won't," he pouted, and she heard that five year old boy in him again, abandoned at school and fighting against tears.

"You will," she said and nuzzled her head down against his side, took it for granted that he would listen to her and do what was necessary.

She knew what it was to be abandoned.

* * *

He woke up in agony with Kate Beckett sprawled over his chest, sleep-warm and breathing deeply, her arms curled tightly between their bodies. His ribs ached, and he had to turn so she wasn't pressed right against him.

Too bad, because she was beautiful and soft and he wanted her there, but he couldn't stand the thrumming pulse of his bruised ribs. She sighed, tender and small, and he ignored the pain to lean in and press his mouth to hers.

When he pulled back and opened his eyes, she was watching him.

He studied her as well, and then her fingers came up to stroke across his jaw and trip along his lips and she smiled, deep and forever and gorgeous. He lov-

"Marry me," she whispered.

He froze.

"Marry me, Richard Castle. Not a lie, not a cover. You're my plan. I want to be your wife."

He rolled into her and pressed his mouth against the suddenly serious line of hers, pushed his tongue inside to capture it, the words and the intensity, until she stiffened under him and his own ribs flared hotly in protest. He jerked back and held her up off the bed and on her side again.

"Your back, shit. I'm an idiot, your back-"

"I'm okay," she said lightly, and he thought it was pain but when he looked at her - when he really looked - it was uncertainty.

"And that's a hell yes, by the way," he growled at her, darting forward to kiss her mouth again, letting his teeth take her bottom lip until she moaned.

"A hell yes?" she panted, a red bloom over her cheeks that wasn't embarrassment, not at all. It was arousal and breathlessness and pleasure. "A simple yes would do."

"Nothing's simple when it's us, Beckett."

"No, it's not. But it's better this way," she murmured.

"I'm kinda pissed that you asked me now," he sighed. "When I can't get at you like I want to."

"Get _at_ me?"

He narrowed his eyes. "You know what I mean." He scraped his hand down her sternum and hooked two fingers in her underwear, wriggling. She gasped and arched her back on a moan that wasn't sensual but painful, and he stopped teasing.

She panted and curled an arm around his neck. "Know what you mean. But still, you will - can you? even though you're a spy?"

"What? Marry you? I'll do whatever the hell I want."

"You need to apologize to your father. Mend that fence. And then-"

He growled again and flopped over onto his back. "Don't bring my father into this. Not when I want to touch you, _do_ things to you-"

"That's exactly why," she muttered. "Keep us both from hurting each other."

"I hate him for how he's tried to manipulate you," he said flatly. "If it was me, I wouldn't care. Same old routine. I won't apologize when he's the one-"

"You will," she said quietly. "Because he raised you, for better or worse, Castle. And because he is, in his own twisted and deceitful way, trying to keep you alive. Doing what he thinks is best for you. And I can respect that even if I despise the way he does it."

"Kate," he sighed, but she kept going, curling at his side and sliding her knee over his thigh.

"You were the target of a sniper. A sniper. And we got lucky because I-"

"This isn't _lucky_," he hissed, gripping the back of her leg and wanting so very badly to shove that thought right out of her head.

"He would've killed you."

"He almost killed you," he growled back. "Fuck that. It's not - no. I'm not - you're in just as much danger as I am. More with me even than - we can't get married. I can't put you in more danger. What the hell am I-"

"Don't you dare take it back," she hissed, rising up over him with her hair spilling down one side of her face and trailing over his chest. "Don't you do that to me."

He gripped her thigh, brought his arm up to hook at her neck and drag her back down to his chest. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I don't - well I did mean it, but I don't. I'm a selfish bastard when it comes to you."

"Good, because I'm plenty selfish, and I'm obsessed as well. I win."

He didn't want her to win. He wanted her to live.

"Apologize to your father because we need him on our side," she muttered, her mouth rooting at his ribs, her teeth scraping at the skin before she kissed him. "Or on your side at least. Don't even care if he's on mine."

"I'll make him."

"No more punching."

"Can't promise that."

"If we're going to keep you safe, and by extension, me as well, then we need him."

Castle squeezed her tighter into him even though it hurt, pressed his mouth to the top of her head. "I don't want to need him."

"Castle," she warned.

"But fine. Yes. I'll apologize. But he's not to touch you, not to mess with you. I'll make him stop."

She shivered and her fingers curled at his sternum, flattened out again. "I'm okay. I can take it."

But she couldn't. He knew that too. And he would make his father stop.

"Kate," he said softly. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. I'm not letting you go."

* * *

He found Agent Black behind a desk at the local office, which meant his father had been waiting for him to show up or the man was simply keeping a close eye on Castle's movements at Stone Farm.

Probably watching Beckett as well.

But Castle stood at attention in front of his father and waited to be acknowledged. When it came, a slight lift of the eyes, Castle said what he'd come to say.

"I apologize for my behavior yesterday and for the disrespect I showed my superior officer. I will submit to any sanctions deemed necessary."

Agent Black stared at him for a long time without moving or speaking until finally, he stood from the desk and crossed his arms at his back.

"That woman has dragged you into something dark and twisted, Richard."

"Detective Beckett," he insisted. "And you do realize it falls under our jurisdiction. The NSA is being used-"

"Don't misunderstand me. I'm not suggesting this is a case we ignore. Corruption within our own government is not to be tolerated. And three of my men were killed - unsanctioned and off-the-books, but still my men."

Castle set his jaw and waited for it.

"This woman has put you in the crosshairs. It would just be her - and her alone - if she was the one leading this crusade. But you're a more powerful opponent. So they're going after you. I can't condone that."

"But it means we're close."

"She's made it personal, Richard. This is a case, not a war. You need to distance yourself from this woman-"

"I'm going to marry her."

His father took a step back, the most visible sign of surprise that Castle had ever seen him give out. But Agent Black shook his head and smoothed his features.

"You need permission for that."

"A committee will look at it, I know. I came by today to get the request form. She'll sign her okay to the background check and then that's it. You can't stop this."

"I _am_ on the committee."

And just with that short sentence, Castle knew his father could postpone it indefinitely, could perhaps even overthrow the committee and make Castle's life hell. He'd marry her anyway, but he'd be put off active duty. Again.

And Beckett had said to mend fences.

"I'll have her no matter what you say, what you do," Castle said calmly, not letting the anger color his voice because he knew his father would disapprove. "She's mine. Partner, friend, lover. Everything. She's mine."

"Perhaps after this case, the two of you can revisit-"

"No," he said. He had no hope of this case being resolved soon. And he couldn't wait that long. "She's with me. Like you said, they'll be after her."

"They're after_ you_," Black insisted, leaning forward somewhat as if to emphasize his point. But he had control, and he eased back, his eyes like two flat rocks. "You both - though you more than her - are in danger from this group. A source not even I can discover, have no way or method of crushing-"

"We know who it is," he said calmly. "Beckett was the one to figure it out. She put the pieces together. I just looked up the name."

Agent Black lifted his eyes to him, a tilt of his head to indicate he'd seen every report Castle had filed and not once had there been mention of a source. A name.

Castle and Beckett had kept it back. "We have no proof," he explained. "Less than none. Speculation and jumping to some wild conclusions. I couldn't put it in an official report."

"You have. . .a name. Tell me."

Castle swallowed and averted his eyes from his father, a flash of that cemetery and the sunlight, her body bleeding out.

"Senator Bracken."

And instead of censure, instead of a lecture on going through proper procedure to acquire information, his father nodded to the chair in front of his desk, and then he sat down himself. Black didn't even look surprised at hearing the name. "Continue, Agent Castle. Give it to me step by step."

_Agent Castle_.

So he sat down and explained how they'd arrived at the name.

* * *

"You do realize, don't you, that going up against a man like Bracken means serious work."

Castle lifted an eyebrow at his father's words. How could he not know that? Of course he knew that. "Serious work."

"Bracken has-"

"Don't you think I know that?"

Agent Black sat back in his desk chair, steepled his fingers under his chin and studied his son. Castle kept himself from shifting in his seat and endured the scrutiny.

"Then we dig in," Black said finally. "We go full throttle at this. You're marrying her, fine. Marry her. But just know that you're going to have a target on your back, and she will as well, until we get this done. We _will_ get this done."

"You leave Beckett alone, and I'm all yours," he said quickly, leaning forward in his seat.

Agent Black scraped a finger down his cheek and then sat forward as well, his elbows on his desk. "We'll start at the bottom of the pile - the runts of his litter - and work our way to the top. It's going to mean at least three months of you being here, Richard. Three more months of fourteen hours days and more. You'll have to be committed to your job."

Castle made a fist, felt the the anger flash through him. It wasn't like he hadn't been doing his job. "I'm committed to my job," he said finally, gritting his teeth.

Black laced his fingers together and nodded. "Then that's it. We go after Bracken. I'll get your access reinstated."

Castle tapped his finger against the arm of the chair and wondered if he should-

"If we can't get him."

"Richard."

"If we can't get the evidence to put him away," he said quickly. "Then I'll have to do something about it."

His father was silent for a long time, his head bowed over his hands, and Castle waited. He wouldn't back down on this one.

"You come to me first," his father said finally.

Castle glanced up. Agent Black's eyes were just as cold, just as blank. But there was an intensity behind them that he'd never seen before.

"I come to you first."

"But you'll give me three months," Black insisted. "Three months."

He swallowed hard. He'd have to be away from Stone Farm for most of his days, probably nights as well - weeks if the work required it.

"Three months," he agreed.


	10. Chapter 10

**Close Encounters 3.5**

* * *

She had the whole morning and afternoon to herself; she wasn't sure when Castle would be back, but she made it to the kitchen and ate dry toast - easiest - before she took a slow walk around the perimeter of the back enclosure. The horses were pastured, and she was tempted, but she'd promised him not to push past her limits.

She _did _actually know what those were. Sometimes.

Castle still hadn't showed up after his meeting with his father - she hoped he had apologized nicely, and not with his fists - so she went on to therapy without Logan's help. Fezzik tortured her for a second session, brutal and nasty because she'd been doing so much better, and she laid on the table and fought to breathe when it was over.

No Castle.

The silence was kind of nice for a change.

Before Logan could come to get her, she struggled up and off the table then headed for her room. The light was beginning to leave the sky, and the bed was in shadows. Beckett shivered as her sweat dried on her skin and she moved to the bathroom.

She had to shower carefully.

She struggled to wash her hair but couldn't get her arms up that far. After a few minutes maneuvering, she gave up and ran water in the tub, just enough that she could dip her head back and rinse. No soap, but she didn't want to ask for help. She was feeling better than she had in ages; she thought she was past the worst of it.

When she'd been shot only a few years ago, it'd been basically a graze along her collarbone. Her recovery had been fast, and she'd been at the precinct every day. She wanted back there, wanted back at work, back to her normal routine and her worthwhile life.

Stone Farm, while beautiful and definitely excellent in their care, wasn't much better than a prison.

Beckett sighed and climbed out of the tub, dripping wet and shivering in the cold. She snagged a towel and winced as she lifted her arms to dry off, couldn't quite get it. With a growl of impatience, she clutched the towel around herself and stalked towards the bedroom.

She ran right into Castle.

He caught her before she could fall back, kept her against him, but the towel dropped.

His eyebrows raised, his hands lowered, and she gasped.

"Hey there," he murmured.

She huffed, more breathless than she wanted to be, and clutched his dress shirt. "You. . .I. . .took a shower."

"Your hair's tangled," he said, dipping his head so that his mouth trailed hotly at her cheekbone.

She was naked and he was fully dressed and she wanted him closer. "Castle."

His fingers came to her neck and slipped through her hair, thought not far; it really was tangled. She tilted her head back as far as she could, met his eyes.

His thumb came to her temple and circled as his fingers curled in her hair. "Need help with this, Kate?"

She swayed.

"Come sit. I'll get the tangles out."

"Clothes," she said inanely. "I need to get dressed."

"Do you have to?"

She grunted and pushed him back, stumbled away to head for the dresser. But he was chuckling and came behind her, draping the towel over her shoulders and tucking it around her.

"Kidding," he murmured, reaching past her to tug open the top drawer.

His tshirts were in there, and when he snagged one, she slipped out of his embrace and tried to knock him back. "No. I want my clothes."

"But this is easier-"

"No, Castle. Jeez, just-"

"Okay, okay," he muttered, shutting the top drawer. "Get your own clothes; I'm a bully. I know."

She glanced over at him and he was grinning; it made a smile crack on her face and she clutched the towel closer to her. "You gonna help me?"

"Even though I'd rather keep you naked. . .I suppose I'll help. If I have to."

She smirked at him and stepped closer, trailing her finger up the placket of his buttons until his eyes dipped down to her mouth. She bit her bottom lip and leaned in to kiss the skin at his open collar.

His hands came to her hair again but snarled, and they both laughed.

"Okay, love. Clothes and then I gotta do something about these tangles."

* * *

Only six weeks ago, his fingers in her hair had made her weak and irritated, like she'd never be able to reclaim herself. And then over time it became just another thing he did, had to do, for her. Now she felt dangerous, like her life was an entirely new creation and she didn't know where she was going.

What she was doing.

But it included these hands in her hair and the way he touched. . .

She'd asked him - no, she'd _told_ him to marry her.

She wanted him. She did. She needed him. But now that she was sitting on the bed with his knees bracing her and his hands in her hair, his presence loomed overwhelming and unknowable.

He was a spy. How could she ever really know him?

His fingers gathered her hair, draping it to one side, and his mouth touched the back of her neck in a kiss that sent hot spikes of arousal down her spine. She clutched the quilt and fought to stay upright.

His breath was erotic against her skin, and then it disappeared, but he wasn't gone. She could feel him just behind her, the radiating warmth of his body and his want, and then his fingers were working slowly through the loose tangles in her hair.

"I have a comb," she rasped, closing her eyes at the sound of her own voice. Needy and desperate.

"I like doing it like this."

She tried to think, tried to gather herself back together. "You. . .saw your father?"

"Yes."

His fingers were methodical and slow, stroking down her scalp and brushing at her neck. Instead of it being soothing, she wanted to turn around and straddle his lap, have those fingers trip down her spine and-

"You okay?" he murmured suddenly. "You're breathing hard."

"I'm - good. Good."

She felt his fingers curl and drag down her scalp through the thick mass of her hair and it sent a wash of arousal under her skin. Rhythmic, smooth, over and over until she knew he was enjoying it as much as she was. Her hair was combed, straight, neat; there was nothing left to do. He just liked it. He just wanted to touch.

She finally gave in and gripped his thighs at her waist, felt his legs squeeze a little as if he couldn't help responding to her as well.

And that was how she knew she felt better, that she really was healing and recovering - rebuilding - because just the touch of his fingers in her hair made her want to do something about it. About him. About the need in her.

She'd always communicated best with her mouth. On his.

She turned around to claim it.

* * *

When they were both breathless and his ribs ached and her back was a hard knot under his hands, he finally had to put her away from him.

She stared back at him with arousal dripping in her eyes, her hair a riot around her face where he'd gripped, a fistful as he'd angled her just where he'd wanted her.

Shit, she couldn't look so sexy. He wasn't allowed to do anything about it.

She licked her lips and he growled, had to close his eyes a moment.

"Let me. . .let me put your hair up," he muttered. "Keep it from getting tangled."

Beckett's fingers slid off his bicep and skimmed his thigh. "That's how this got started. Your hands in my hair."

He grunted on his laughter, and even though she was giving him that faint, pleased smile, he could see the banked embers of her need.

He moved to get the rubber band tucked under the comb in the bedside drawer. She was watching him with those soulful eyes, and he couldn't look. Dared not look. At least he'd have three months away where he wouldn't attack her, jump her bones every time she looked at him like that.

Castle turned her around on the bed and sat behind her, gathered her hair up in his hands. He wouldn't say he'd been practicing, but he'd spent so much time with his hands in her hair, helping her wash it, that he felt more confident about what he was doing. It felt right to be the one doing it now, since he was the one who put her hair in a bun right before the funeral, only to have it come unraveled in the ambulance as they fought to save her life.

All the pins she'd put in it; he remembered seeing them in the floor of the bus, bloodied and shining.

It made his throat tighten to think about it now. How close it was. How her eyes had looked in that cemetery and the blood leaked out and it felt like nothing could hold her, nothing could keep her with him.

But she was alive.

He had to smooth it out again as best he could, tried to remember what she'd been doing with it lately. He hadn't been around much to see her up and dressed in the daylight, and they didn't have a blow dryer here so it kinked up when it went free. But he liked it, even though she didn't. Made her look sexy-

Uh, might not be the best idea, the way she was gripping his thighs and the heat of her between his legs.

He could. . .braid it. He could try at least. He knew how to braid rope for a fuse; it couldn't be much different.

Castle combed his fingers through her hair a few more times, and then started at the top, or as near as he could. She seemed to sway in his arms and he glanced at her face to make sure she was okay. She licked her lips and her head turned to his, eyes opening so dark and beautiful.

And aroused.

His breath caught in his chest and his fingers tangled at the back of her head.

No.

No.

But then she was kissing him hard, her teeth scraping over his bottom lip and her body rocking into his and he twisted her hair around his fist and couldn't stop.

* * *

Had to stop, had to _stop_.

She couldn't. Couldn't. Everything they'd been was rooted in this, touching him and having him and his possession of her, but maybe-

"Stop," he growled out. "Stop, Kate. Gotta stop."

He put her away and she shivered, her vision swimming back to focus on the ragged need in his eyes. "Stop," she murmured, agreeing or questioning, she didn't know. "But soon. Soon, Castle. Gotta be soon."

He grunted and kissed her again, teeth clashing, and she winced into his mouth. It made him halt, panting against her cheek, and then he drew away, his hand coming out of her hair slowly, fingers trailing against her cheek.

She stared at him. "I love you."

He laughed, actually laughed, but she could see he was trying to smother it. "That kinda came out of nowhere."

"That's what happens when I can't just fuc-"

He pressed a kiss against her words, still hard, forceful. As always. A bully.

"Can't talk dirty to me, Beckett. Not right now."

She licked her lips and felt the grunt in his chest against her fingers. She had to smile. "So. My hair. Presentable?"

"Uh, my standards are kinda low, Beckett. Your hair is always-"

"Whatever. Let me see it." She rolled her eyes and pushed up from the bed, moved slowly towards the bathroom so she could look. Her face was washed out with exhaustion, but her hair had begun to dry in wild curls around her face. Still he'd pulled it back and braided it halfway.

"You need to finish it, Castle," she called back, turning slowly. He was already there, his fingers tangling in her hair, scraping it back and twisting it. She wasn't sure if he really knew how to braid, but he was making a passable effort.

He pulled a hair tie from his wrist even as she searched the bathroom counter for one. The tangle of stuff that she hated to need - pills and bandages and exercise balls and ointment - the reminders of her brokenness were spread out all over the place.

But she'd done it. All of it. She kept doing it. His damn program. She hadn't even tried to get on a horse.

His fingers slipped across her neck and she lifted her head to see him in the mirror. His brow was furrowed.

"Castle?"

"I have to go back to work. But you-"

"I'm probably gonna sleep," she admitted with a sigh. It was nearly dinner time, but she'd probably be too tired for even that. Especially if he wasn't making her go.

"Good," he murmured. "Sleep is good."

"Work is. . ."

"Gonna be rough for the next couple months. Be gone a lot." His mouth came softly to hers, a brush of his lips that made the answer soothing. If she had more energy, she'd figure out what was happening because she knew it had something to do with her. But she didn't have the energy.

"Black?"

"I apologized," he growled.

"And?"

"I'm back on the team."

She didn't know if that was a good thing, but he seemed resigned to it. Maybe even some latent need there - he had to miss his job as much as she longed to get back to hers.

"You gonna be late tonight?" she said, finding the words slipping out of her mouth even though she didn't want them to.

He pulled back to stare at her, and she bit the inside of her cheek to quell that stupid urge.

"I just mean - even if you're late," she corrected. "Crawl in when you get back."

* * *

She hadn't seen him that night. Nor the next. It was four days before she caught sight of Castle again.

She woke at sunrise to an ache in her back that throbbed and his body wrapped around hers. She twisted around to ease the pain and found herself face to face with him. He was asleep in his clothes.

He had a black eye and his cheek was scraped raw.

Kate sat up, and instead of it waking him, his arm dropped away from her. She saw where his forearm was wrapped, hiding some wound she didn't know, and when she touched her fingers to his chest, he flinched in his sleep.

She paused, trembling with a spasm of her own pain, but slowly put her hands in the collar of his dress shirt to draw it aside and glimpsed vivid bruises. Her breath caught and she pushed the buttons through their holes, undressed him as quickly as she could, horrified by the mottled purple and black along his torso.

He grunted awake at her touch, his eyes startlingly open. So blue it made her heart ache.

"Castle."

He stared at her like he didn't know who she was.

"Castle, what happened?"

He scraped his hand down his face and grunted, hovering over his eye. "Got into a fight."

"With - with Black?"

He groaned, a little laugh popping out of his mouth. "I wish. Fuck. No."

"Castle," she hissed, tugging his hand away so she could see. "You need ice. The PT room has some. Come on."

"Let me sleep," he muttered.

And then he was. Asleep. Just like that.

Kate struggled out from under him, untangling her legs from his, and got to her feet. She swayed, but she had her balance finally.

She stumbled to the physical therapy room for ice.

* * *

He gasped as he came to, a flash of cold searing his face, his vision black but Kate. Kate.

"Beckett?" he groaned, wincing as he dodged her grip.

"You need ice. Hold still."

He shivered and tried to open his eyes but he realized one was swollen shut. His ribs ached, the burn on his arm was throbbing under the bandage, and she was looking at him like he'd been shot.

"You were shot," he muttered. "What are you doing?"

"I was shot like three months ago, you idiot. You're actually bleeding on our sheets."

Three months ago. "Three. Bleeding?"

"No, not-uh. Are you concussed? No. Come on, Castle. This isn't funny."

He let her tug him into a sitting position, felt his body toppling towards her without his control. She caught him with a huff, and his forehead came to her shoulder, and it was so nice right there that his eyes closed, his one good eye really, and then her fingers were feathering at the back of his neck.

"Do I need to get the doctor?"

"No, no," he murmured. "Checked me out at the office. I'm fine."

"Clearly not fine. You have a concussion."

"Yeah, there is that."

"Castle," she hissed.

"What?"

"Why didn't you wake me up? You have a concussion. You shouldn't-"

"I did wake you," he muttered, slitting one eye to look at her. "You're awake."

Her mouth dropped open but he laid his head back to her shoulder and slipped his hands around her waist to hang on.

"Oh, Castle," she sighed. "What happened, love?"

"Just had to. . .had to."

"Rick."

"Me or him. Promise. He tried to throw me off a bridge."

He thought she might be cursing, but she was squeezing too hard for him to hear and he was kinda, sorta collapsing them both to the bed.

* * *

She stroked her fingers over his neck and winced, shifted a bit under him, her back pressed against the headboard. She could do this. She could.

For a few minutes more.

Maybe a minute.

Okay, time's up.

"Castle. Come on. Castle."

He grunted and jerked violently awake, raising up off her, his body swaying. She reached out to clutch him.

"Castle."

"I feel bad. I'm - gonna throw up."

He was running for the bathroom before she could even process the green tint to his skin and then she heard the toilet seat bounce up and the sound of his retching.

She winced and put her feet to the floor, hesitated for only a moment before standing. She heard the water running, and then he came back out of the bathroom with his eye purple and shining.

"Castle?"

"Concussion."

"You okay?"

He nodded slowly, but he was wincing. "Just gotta sleep it off."

She turned back for the ice abandoned on the bed and felt him come up behind her, his hands at her hips.

"Crawl in with me?" he murmured.

She sighed and lifted the ice to his face, making him duck. "So long as you keep this on your eye for the next ten minutes."

He growled, but took the bag of ice from her.

* * *

When she woke a few hours later, he was gone.

The ice was melting in a wet spot on his side of the bed.


	11. Chapter 11

**Close Encounters 3.5**

* * *

Castle came back to Stone Farm some time after lunch the following day. She'd just managed to make toast, but he was stumbling towards the barn. Like he wasn't even going to come inside.

"Castle," she called after him, taking a firm step off the back porch and towards him on the path.

He halted and turned to look at her.

"Shit," she whispered.

He winced and stood there, his hands in his pockets. The scrape on his face was scabbed over, the black eye was fading, but now she saw the ugly rent in his shirt, and the bandages over his ribs. More bruises.

"This is how your fucking father keeps you safe?" she growled, coming towards him.

"It's work," he said, and she could see the effort it took him to just say the words.

Fuck. "Okay, come on. Inside, Castle. Come inside."

He swayed, but he followed her into the house and down the hall to the therapy room. She'd check his bandages and get him more ice and then - maybe - he'd stay put and rest.

But he didn't. He was gone a few hours later, and she spent the rest of the day telling herself she wasn't worried about him.

He was a spy; he could take care of himself.

* * *

She looked lonely in their bed, the wide space on either side of her like she hadn't even expected him to come back to it, like she was back to being a middle-of-the-bed sleeper.

He sighed and stripped off his clothes slowly, the moonlight casting a faint path towards her. His shirt got stuck and he didn't have the presence of mind nor the strength to work out how to get it over his head, so he toed off his shoes, shucked his pants, and crawled in with her.

But she woke and turned towards him.

He'd expected her to be pissed off, but she only looked at him, brought her fingers up under his shirt gently to his chest, hovering over the bandages that hid the gash along his ribs.

"It's my mother's case," she whispered. And it wasn't even a question.

"Yeah. Three months of this, that's all," he said slowly. He brought his hand up to tangle with hers, used his other hand to stroke at her bottom lip. She wasn't angry at all; she looked afraid.

"Castle. I should have your back."

"I made you a promise, Kate. And it's the best way - the only way - to keep us both safe."

"You don't even have Eastman to back you up," she whispered.

He squeezed her hand, his throat closing. "I'm fine. I need to sleep." He turned over and closed his eyes.

After a long moment, he felt her hand at the small of his back, her forehead at his shoulder blade, and he could sleep.

* * *

He'd been gone for three days when he showed up in the middle of breakfast. She yanked the scrambled eggs off the burner and turned gracelessly for him, felt him stumble and clutch at her before righting them both.

"No, go on. I could use some eggs," he said, giving her a sloppy grin that made her heart pound too hard.

"Castle," she gasped, gripping him when he swayed.

"Concussion. I'm okay."

"You can't be that good though," she growled, pushing him towards a chair and off of her. Two concussions in the span of two weeks wasn't good, but she didn't have the strength to hold him up.

He put his head in his hands and grunted, sat up straight again. "Not good. Sleep it off here."

She frowned and went back to the eggs, just to give her hands something to do that didn't include strangling him. Which she probably wouldn't be able to do anyway.

So many damn things she couldn't do. And he was dragging home beat up every few days.

"We got him," he said into the hiss of eggs on the stove.

"What?" she gasped, jerking around and wincing as it pulled.

"No, not - not Bracken. The punk that was running heroin for him. Took over for Coonan. Remember-"

"I remember," she said harshly.

"Got him."

She turned her face back to the eggs and resolutely would _not_ allow herself to ask the details.

Like - _where were you for the last three days? And before that?_

* * *

When she came back from therapy, he'd just started to rouse. She'd had Logan come in and check on him, so she knew he hadn't slipped into a concussion coma, but she didn't like the way his eyes looked. And he had bruises along his torso again.

"Castle."

He shifted in the bed and groaned, tried to sit up.

"No, don't get up. Where's the ice? Logan was supposed to bring you a fresh bag."

"I don't know," he muttered.

She frowned and leaned over him carefully, her body less shaky than she'd expected after that round from Fezzik. She found the ice next to his head and brought it against his ribs, hoping to at least keep the swelling down. His body was mottled with bruises, but he didn't seem to notice; he had a bandage over his forearm and she wondered if it was the same bandage from a few days ago.

"What happened to your arm?" she murmured, sitting down at his hip and balancing the ice against his every breath.

"Fire."

"Fire?"

"Fired at. Got fired at. Just a graze."

"You got _shot_?" she hissed.

"Oh. Well. Last week. I-"

"Castle." She dropped the ice and cradled his arm, her fingers drifting over the gauze covering his _bullet wound_. "Castle, you were shot."

"No. Just at. Shot at. Difference."

"What the hell?" she growled, her fingers unconsciously squeezing. "What are you doing?"

He grunted and turned his head to look at her. "Just work. This is just work, Beckett. Remember the English channel and pirates and all of that?"

She bit her bottom lip. "But that was. . .national security. This is my mother's case."

"That's national security too," he muttered and his arm turned in her grip to lace his fingers with hers.

"It's not."

"He's a senator. Black is with me on this."

His father?

"Castle-"

"It's okay. I got it covered."

"You can't do this without me."

"I got it covered," he murmured again, and then he was asleep.

* * *

When he was gone another two days running down the last of the heroin suppliers, he came back this time with a brand new phone. He was an ass for not thinking of it before now. It took handcuffing a skanky whore and confiscating her personal effects with the woman screeching in his ear about her _contacts_ before he realized that Beckett had no way to reach him - or anyone else for that matter. Not even her father.

He put the phone in her hands and she curled her fingers around it. She was in bed, nearly asleep, and this time it was _his_ side of the bed. He was a bastard. And he knew it.

"What's this?" she said.

"Your phone. I should've given it to you before now."

"This isn't my phone. I don't even know where my-"

"Had to ditch it," he sighed softly. "Security. But this one's better."

She was staring at him and finally she let her eyes drift down to the iphone. It had a black case for it - standard issue - but he wished suddenly that he'd gone out and gotten her something fun. Blue or purple or stripes or something. Other than black.

"Look," he murmured, taking it from her and thumbing it on. "Same password. And here? Panic button. Calls the office."

She bit her lip. "I used that when you were stabbed."

"Uh, well. I - yeah. Okay. So no plans on being stabbed, but here's my number." He brought up his contact information. He'd already transferred all her contacts from her old phone, the one they'd had to ditch. He'd had to replicate her sim card to do it. "You can call me any-"

When he paused to consider that statement, she lifted an eyebrow.

"You can," he insisted. "Call me. But. I'll try to answer. If I can. Sometimes I can't-"

"I know," she said finally, her eyes dark. "I'm an NYPD detective. Or I damn well was. I know what it means when you're in the middle of a case."

"Not just the case. But - going after a guy. Sometimes my phone is off. But I'll always check it."

"I know," she said fiercely, like she was pissed at him.

She probably was.

"I'll text you," he said softly and leaned in to kiss her.

She pulled back. "You're not - you're going?"

"I have to. A stake out. I know I've been out of touch and I didn't mean for that to happen. So I wanted you to have a way to get in touch with me. Or well, anyone. Beckett. You can call your dad. The boys. You can't tell them where you are, and you can't stay on long, but it's a secure line."

And then she did give him a faint, flickering smile. He brushed a kiss over that smile and took it with him when he left.

* * *

She made herself an omelette and spotted Logan coming in from the hallway. "You want some?"

"Nope, just checking on you. Eggs for dinner?"

"I like eggs," she defended, but really, it was that eggs were easy. She had no idea how far she'd make it tonight, and she was ready to drop.

"Leave you to it, then. Night, Beckett."

"Good night, Logan."

She carried her plate to the table and sat down in silence, pulled her phone out to look at the lock screen.

It was him. His stupid face, goofy smile, sticking out tongue. A mimic of the one she'd put on his phone once.

She hadn't seen Castle since the night before, and she didn't expect to. He had a job to do still, and on top of that he was chipping away at her mother's case, going after Bracken, and she really wouldn't complain about that.

She'd showered and dressed by herself this morning, like every morning for the last two weeks, and she was actually relieved to be alone. She'd picked out her own clothes, she'd walked - slowly but surely - to her own physical therapy session, and she'd gone through her old case notes.

Esposito had sent them to her phone. It wasn't the same as having them in front of her to touch, to manipulate on a white board, but she could look at the cold cases and see if anything popped.

She might still be worthwhile to her team. Even here.

Beckett cut into her omelette and slowly began to eat. The noise of crickets and frogs came in the screen door and drowned out her thoughts, kept her thumb from touching the messaging app.

She would hear from him, sooner or later.

* * *

Beckett gave up on washing her hair, leaned on her side in the bathtub for a moment's rest, closed her eyes.

The phone was on the counter, and it buzzed suddenly with a text.

She jerked upright and winced at the pull in her back, sloshed stupidly out of the bathtub and nearly tripped over the side, fell to her knees with a curse.

Beckett slowly got to her feet, gripping the edge of the tub for support, and then grabbed a towel. She wrapped it around herself and reached up with her good arm to gather her hair, squeeze it out over the tub. It hurt to lean that far, but she muscled through it and dragged herself towards the counter.

It was from Castle.

She read it twice before the words made sense.

_Coming home. Be there in twenty._

Her heart flipped and she cursed herself for it, dropped the towel to find her clothes, dropped the phone on accident, had to get on her hands and knees and pull it out from under the clawfoot tub, her back straining and knotting in pain.

Fuck.

She sat on the floor for a moment, dizzy, the phone clutched in her fingers, and then she slowly crawled to the doorway, leveraged herself up, and walked into the bedroom naked.

Her shorts were there, waiting, and she slipped into them easily enough, but stood shivering as she regarded the tshirt she'd been sleeping in.

His.

Nope. Wouldn't do.

She tossed it towards the dirty clothes piled in the corner - she would take it to the laundry tomorrow, if she had the strength - and instead went slowly for her stuff in the drawer. She had a thin camisole with lace straps, purple, and she pulled it on with relish, bit her bottom lip at how stupid, totally stupid this was.

But she didn't want him to see her in his own tshirt - like she was pining for him or something. Like she fucking missed him.

No way. Let him see what he was missing.

She slipped into bed and put the phone on the table, eased down onto her side to wait.

She fell asleep.

And he never came.

* * *

She had a text from him the next morning; it'd come through nearly two hours after the first one and it said he couldn't make it. Things came up. She blinked at the message and left the phone on the side table, got up and went to the bathroom.

Logan knocked on her door as she was just getting ready; he came inside at her welcome and checked her over. "Therapy early today. You mind?"

She hadn't had breakfast; she'd been too slow to wake, too slow to dress. Damn it.

"I don't mind," she answered, pushed her foot into her shoes. And then she stood and followed him.

* * *

Fuck. _Bad idea, idiot, you stupid idiot._

She should've had breakfast. Should've eaten something.

She felt her head swim and pushed through, did the rep her crazy therapist asked of her, and made her legs work despite the pulsing pain in her back.

"One more," Robert said, toneless.

Fuck, she wanted to murder him.

Castle. She wanted to fucking kill him for this.

* * *

"I missed you," he breathed out, crawling in behind her and cradling her body with his. She stiffened. "Why didn't you answer my text?"

"Didn't think you needed me for that," she said dryly.

He chuckled and slipped his hand under her shirt, flat against her stomach, felt her warmth. The bed was still cool, so she hadn't been here long; he hadn't woken her.

Her tension melted slowly and he pressed his mouth to her neck, nuzzled his nose into the soft skin. She felt good; she felt strong, actually, and he tightened his arms a little and tried to keep away from the bullet wound in her back.

"Any war injuries?" she murmured.

"A few. Fine. I'm fine. Papercut and a jammed finger."

"Papercut," she sighed out.

He smiled and brushed his lips at her spine, touched his tongue to the skin there. She shivered and stiffened again, and he realized he might be hurting her.

He slid his palm to her side, feeling her ribs, skirted his thumb over the rise of her hip. Her bones slipped under his fingers; she was thin but she'd gained muscle, he could tell.

"You eat dinner?" he said suspiciously.

She grunted and knocked at his hand. "Yes."

"I haven't," he murmured. "But I'm too tired to get up and make something. Tomorrow morning, I'll make us a feast. How's that?"

"Okay."

"Kate," he sighed and couldn't help tightening his arm around her again, nudging closer. This time her body was less against him, so maybe the pain had receded. "I missed you."

"Funny way of showing it, Castle."

He grinned because he _was_ trying to be good, trying to keep from hurting her, but if she wanted. . .

He skimmed his fingers back along her stomach, drifted up slowly until he felt her breath hitch, knew he had her. But he wasn't trying to cause her pain; he should stop. He should really stop. His fingers seemed to have a mind of their own, stroking slowly over her skin in whorls and eddies, brushing against her belly button, along the waistband of her shorts, back up, up, up-

She gasped and her hand clenched around his, their fingers tangling, and she turned around in his embrace, faster than he thought possible. He grinned at her and saw her eyes - so dark, so very dark - but he didn't understand their meaning.

And then she was pushing him to his back in the bed and raising up over him, her mouth hot and intent on his, her teeth punishing, her lips bruising, and he welcomed it.

When they were panting, when his body ached with wanting her, she stopped.

She dropped her forehead to his chest, fingers tight at his ribs, her breath coming in ragged gulps.

He smoothed his hands up and down her thighs, smiled into her hair, kissed the edge of her ear. "Love you, Kate."

She shivered and settled against him, and soon she was asleep.

* * *

Castle startled her in the hallway the next day, right after her second physical therapy session. He pushed away from the wall and came to help, but she'd already recovered and moved past him.

"You're here," she said, heading for the kitchen. She felt less brittle than usual.

"I brought a snack. You hungry?" He was holding up a plastic bag and wriggling his eyebrows.

She gestured to the open doorway of the kitchen, let him go ahead of her. "Always hungry after PT."

"That's what I thought," he said, a note of triumph in his voice. She liked the swagger in his walk, the confident sexiness he had about him again. She'd missed that.

So she followed him inside the kitchen and moved to the fridge. "What'd you bring me?"

"Cherries."

She turned quickly to stare at him a moment, then shrugged it off, gave him a smile. "Sounds good, Castle. How long are you here for?"

His face fell, but he seemed to blow it off. "An hour. Enough, right?"

No. But. She could be okay with it.

* * *

After the cherries he was gone for two days, but when he got back, it was a sparkly white case for her phone; she switched it out with the black one and it felt more like hers. After that it was a week gone and then a bag of stuff from her apartment - mostly clothes, but a framed photo of herself with her father outside his cabin had been put on top.

When he came back after seventy hours with only a bloodied lip and his arm in a sling, she was grateful there were no gifts with it this time. She'd been starting to feel kept. Beckett sent him to the PT room with Logan to administer some ultrasound to his sprained shoulder while she tried to decide what to make them for a late dinner.

He slumped back into the kitchen with his eyes cloudy, and she knew he'd been given some pain meds. She was grateful he'd taken them without much of a fight; he was different from her when it came to the recovery program.

He followed it.

She smirked and came to him at the table, scraped her fingers through his hair and tugged his head back so she could see him. "Baby, you look wiped out."

"Not enough that I missed _baby_," he muttered, cracking one eye open and closing the other.

She scratched her nails in his scalp and let go, moved slowly back to the counter. She had made instant mac and cheese a few times, a hot dog once, a lot of scrambled eggs. She debated for a moment, then glanced back to her drowsy, drooping partner.

"Want soup?" she asked.

"Anything. Don't care. I want to crawl in bed with you and not come out for a few days."

So she grabbed a can of instant chicken noodle and set about making that happen.

* * *

She woke in the night to him curled at her hip, his forehead against her side, his free arm looped over her waist. She was on her stomach to sleep, but she turned and moved into him, matched his embrace.

He didn't rouse, but she stayed awake, alert, and stroked her fingers over his jaw, his neck, the rough edge of the sling around his shoulder and arm. He had a new scar just under his collarbone, it sort of matched hers, and she touched her thumb to it with a sigh.

She didn't want to fall asleep, but she'd started going to therapy twice a day now and she was exhausted.

And he was here.


	12. Chapter 12

**Close Encounters 3.5**

* * *

He woke late - he had expected his body to get him up naturally at an appropriate time, but it was already eight and he could hear the shower running.

Castle hustled into clean clothes and dropped the growing dirty pile down the hall inside the laundry room. He needed to find Ragle and go over a few new security measures, and then he had to get back to the office for a nine a.m. meeting. After that, he was taking a team into the city to pick up another low-level lackey in Bracken's organization.

It'd only been a couple months, but they were making good progress.

He had to go. He couldn't wait. How long did it taken her to shower?

Castle snagged her detective's notebook from the stack of stuff on the dresser, pulled out a clean sheet and wrote her a quick note.

And then he left.

* * *

Beckett gazed across the pasture and sighed slowly.

Stone Farm was lonely as hell.

Beautiful. But desolate. And it was never more apparent than a morning on her own after he'd been hers for a night.

Beckett pushed a hand through her hair as best she could but her arms were shaky from therapy. She leaned against the fence and let it support her weight, tried not to wonder where he was today, what he might be doing.

She wasn't built to sit at home.

She'd called her father and spoken to him for as long as she thought was safe; he'd asked after Castle quite a lot, actually. She had the strange sensation that the two of them had talked - without her - that maybe they still talked, that maybe Castle was keeping her father up to date on things. It was both unsettling and also. . .sweet.

Esposito had taken her suggestions on a cold case and asked for a warrant, but he'd been denied on insufficient evidence. Beckett was working through it now, the case spread out like a map in her mind's eye. She probed the weak places, saw them unravel too easily, like rotting knots in a rope.

Of course, now she had all the time in the world to figure it out.

Beckett pulled out her phone and texted Esposito to send her the bank records they'd gotten two years ago. When five minutes had passed and she'd heard nothing, Beckett pushed her phone back into her pocket and leaned her elbows on the railing.

Her back pulled against the strain but she was so damn tired of wincing and readjusting, tired of not being able to move like she needed to, tired of being quarantined like a mouse who was let out only to run the maze. She loved the cheese, but damn it was driving her nuts.

Beckett couldn't keep upright; she had to move away and head for the barn instead. Her fingers trailed over the rough wood and soon she was inside the cool, dim interior of the barn. She could practically feel the quiet and the solitude, all the horses outside, and the wind that came in through the open door and rattled the tack.

She never saw the stable hands, or whatever they were called. Well, okay - she'd seen them a few times, leading the horses to pasture or back inside for the night. She'd been mostly too self-absorbed to really look though, and she'd never been close enough for conversation. It made the place seem all the more desolate.

She put her hand to the saddle slung over a block, felt the well-worn leather with her fingertips, the stitching and the straps of the stirrups, how it was made for a purpose.

Ragle was here somewhere. And Logan would be upstairs cleaning the room where the last patient had stayed - a man she'd never met and had never been allowed to talk to and who had been gone again in the blink of an eye. There were security guards that circled but never spoke, and a guard's gate at the start of the gravel drive.

Fezzik, her physical therapist, came every day and mostly grunted his disapproval. And then there was the woman who cleaned, but she'd apparently been instructed not to make conversation, and so Kate had given up trying.

And now her phone. But it was silent as the barn around her.

She wanted out of here. She wanted a way to escape.

If she could just ride. . .

* * *

He parked the Range Rover behind the house, angling it into the deeper shadows under the tree. Castle stumbled out, wincing at the moonlight that splayed across the lawn. His jaw ached and he had a nasty bruise at his back, but the field doc had cleared him to go home.

Home. Stone Farm was home?

Well, the woman inside was.

Castle went up the porch steps and opened the kitchen door, then tried to keep it quiet as he closed it behind him. The screen door bounced against its frame and he hunched his shoulders, but nothing stirred.

It was four o'clock in the morning and he just wanted to rest for a few hours. He needed to be back early.

The nights had gotten brisk, and the thin shirt wasn't really enough; he'd have to remember to find Kate a few long-sleeved shirts, a jacket, make sure she had what she needed. He thought about her constantly, but he couldn't seem to really _focus_ on her, like she was a photo he carried around in his pocket.

His tread was heavy down the hallway, but he opened their bedroom door softly and tried to sneak inside without waking her. She was curled in a fetal position on the edge of the bed, her back turned from him, all on her own side. He stripped off his shoes and jeans, crawled into bed behind her.

She woke suddenly and startled, but he wrapped his arm at her waist and tugged her into him. Her body eased; he heard her sigh.

"Kate," he mumbled, pressing his nose into her shoulder and kissing the skin, being careful not to push too hard on the wound.

"You're cold," she mumbled.

Her fingers laced with his and drew him closer, and he huffed out a pained breath as he was dragged over her back. But she didn't even flinch, so he stayed, grateful and exhausted.

She was silent, and he didn't have time to wonder. He was asleep.

* * *

She had to get out of here. Really. She needed to be - not here.

Not here, waiting for him like he was all that mattered, all that existed in her life - but he was all, sometimes, lately; he was all. She seemed to be more when he was here and less when he wasn't, and she hated it. She wanted to be more. More always, with or without him.

He would come home sometime before dawn with more bruises and a cold nose to her neck as he crawled into bed behind her, and then when she was in therapy the next day, he would slip out again.

She slept hard at night - no help for it, really - but she had no idea how long he was here or when. It was always more of the same - secret missions and his body slowly healing only to show up with a fresh wound and those remote eyes. And usually she wouldn't care, usually it would be fine. She had spent six months with him before this, Castle living out of her apartment, running out in the middle of the night to catch a plane, and she was used to the way he came and went - even used to the random injuries and the secretive nature of his work.

But.

He'd been in and out for nearly three months while she'd been here alone. And okay, yes, she'd felt her body strengthening and healing, rebuilding; he'd been right that she needed to follow the program. The program worked.

But he was out there, no partner, no Eastman, and on her mother's case. Without her. And maybe six months ago, she'd still have been deluding herself into believing that the case was all that mattered - getting Bracken, getting justice - but she wasn't that foolish any longer.

It wasn't all that mattered. Castle had to come back alive.

"You're up?"

She twisted on the path to the barn and saw him standing in the afternoon sunlight, his chin scruffy with a two-day growth and his eyes a little more hollow than she liked.

"Castle."

"You look beautiful," he murmured.

She realized he hadn't seen her up and walking around in a month or more; he hadn't seen her really at all. He'd been there for portions of a therapy session or early in the morning before she woke, but not standing in full sun with the strength of a late fall day in her lungs.

"You look rough," she said back.

He grinned and sauntered towards her on the path, his hands coming to her hips and pulling her against him. She gasped at he ropy feel of his thighs, the tensile strength in his fingers, and she lifted her eyes to the blaze of lust in his.

She'd missed it. Him. She could let herself admit as much.

"Where ya been?" she murmured.

He grinned. "For a second there, with the barn right there and the sunlight, I thought you were about to say _cowboy_, and it nearly did it for me, Beckett."

"In your dreams, super spy."

"Actually, I have a particular fantasy that involves you and some hay," he smirked, lifting his eyebrows and leaning in to her mouth. But his kiss was soft and tender, too sweet.

"You haven't seen what I can do," she said throatily, rolling her hips into his. He grunted into her mouth and clutched harder. "Castle. Wanna ride?"

"Fuck, yes."

She backed away and turned to the barn. "Good, because I need help mounting."

"Shit, Beckett-"

"The horse."

She could hear him sigh behind her but he came with her to the stalls and stood there at the door. "The horse. You want to go riding?"

"Yes," she said with relish. Because she finally could.

And she thought she'd have to do it alone, but since he was here.

Better that he saw what she was capable of now.

* * *

When she looked at him like that, her eyes teasing, her body sharp and alluring in the dim light filtering through the barn, he couldn't say no.

"I'll saddle your horse and help you ride."

"You coming?" she said.

"I hope."

She laughed, her voice rich, and while he hadn't meant to seriously have her in a hayloft in the barn at Stone Farm, he was rapidly trying to calculate how much energy she'd have after a twenty minute ride.

Problem was - he actually didn't know. He had no idea. She was surprising him at every turn.

"Castle," she murmured, moving her body into his and pressing against him. His bruises woke, but they were healed enough that he could silence them with the vision and feel of Kate Beckett.

"Yeah?"

"Make my dream come true, and I just might make yours."

"What's your dream?" he croaked, breathing hard as she stared at him.

"I wanna ride."

"Me too."

* * *

She was amazing. Strong and tall in the saddle, her body moved in rhythm with the horse's walk, and even though it had to be hurting her, she didn't bend, she didn't break.

They stopped at a stream to rest and she let him help her dismount, her body sliding down into his arms. She couldn't move her right shoulder too much, but he wanted to press her against himself and absorb the vital and beautiful way she breathed before him.

"Castle?"

"When did you get so much better?"

She laughed. "It feels like ages, but I'm doing good. Finally. It's been three months since you've stuck around for any length of time. Stuff happens, Castle."

Three months. It was October already. His fingers feathered over her scar and she straightened her spine, but he saw she wasn't flinching. "How's this?"

"Pulls. But I'm okay."

"Yeah?"

"Been cleared, if that's what you mean. No more pelvic rest."

"Where've I been?" he growled and pressed his mouth to hers. She laughed into his kiss but her tongue darted out to touch his and his body went up like dry grass.

"What," she panted, pushing him back. "What was that dream of yours about hay?"

"I shouldn't-"

"Yes, you should. Not out here on the path, but inside that barn? Oh yes you should, Rick Castle. I want you."

He grinned and stroked his fingers through her messy hair, curled them into a fist. Had she done her hair on her own as well, showered and dressed all by herself? Had Logan done it when she needed help? He couldn't imagine Beckett would let anyone in on her weaknesses; he'd had to bully his way into her life to begin with. Today she had just let her hair go wild over her head. He liked it, liked that she wouldn't let anybody but him touch it.

"Your hair is sexy," he murmured.

Her eyes were laughing at him. He didn't even care.

"And your mouth," he went on. "Pink with that tongue and your teeth and how you smile at me. I love your mouth."

"I love your hands," she murmured, her eyes lifting to his and killing him where he stood. "I miss your hands on me, Castle."

He slid his palms to her ass and squeezed, brought her in closer so that he could press his body against hers, warm and flush. He'd missed her the past week, the past month, the past three months. He'd missed knowing how her day had been and what she'd accomplished in physical therapy and keeping track of how many scrambled eggs he'd managed to make her eat. He'd missed her.

"Get me back to the barn," she sighed, her tongue flicking at his earlobe and then her teeth. "Cowboy."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And while we ride, tell me what's going on with my mother's case. Three months, Castle. I'm tired of being in the dark."

She clenched her fist in his shirt and bumped their hips together and all he could think was - _whatever you want, anything, yes._

* * *

Castle kept it short, tried to fill her in without making her anxious about his true intentions. Had he really not explained all this? Three months and he hadn't said a word to her?

"Black has begun a clean-up effort in New York City," he began. "Bracken's network is largely organized crime, with a few legitimate operations at the top."

She leaned into his words like she could actually physically hold herself up with them. That look was in her eyes again.

"So we've swept up a lot of low level stuff, Beckett. Some slave trafficking has been the worst of it, and of course, nothing leads back to him. It's all shell companies and mystery men."

She sighed and that sickly light finally dimmed from her eyes. "What about his ties to the crooked cops in the NYPD?"

He shook his head at her. "We're concentrating on today, not the past, Beckett. It's not - there's not enough there," he said quietly.

"So my mother's murder-"

"Is how we got here, yes. But I can't promise you that Bracken will face a jury for her murder."

"Castle," she groaned. Her voice had a catch in it that he thought was pain, the flare of her shoulder or her back, but when he looked, it was grief. It was just grief.

"Beckett. Kate. Look at me."

She struggled, her hands gripping the reins and her hair snarled around her face and hiding her from his view. But finally she lifted her chin and looked at him. Her eyes were like stone.

"Kate. I made you a promise that I would get him, and I _will_ get him. I will. No matter what. I just can't promise that he'll see your mother's murder charge. There will be other charges, treason being one of them, but that one. . ."

"But he'll have justice," she said fiercely, her eyes glittering now. "He'll have to answer for his actions."

"I promise." He reached across their horses and gripped the material of her jeans right at her knee, clinging to her and keeping the animals close. "Kate. I promise I'll get him."

She set her jaw and swallowed, and he saw her working through that. "Tell me," she rasped finally. "Tell me about the low level stuff. The heroin. The slave trafficking. Who bruised your ribs this time?"

He eased back; that was something he could answer. So he gave her the story of the group running girls in from Kabul and keeping them as prostitutes in the city, and his shoot-out with their leader down by the East River.

And it seemed enough for her. She was satisfied.

But he didn't know for how long.


	13. Chapter 13

**Close Encounters 3.5**

* * *

She felt good, riding on her own. Castle had ridden a demonic looking beast beside her, sticking really close, but she'd had a twenty or thirty minute ride on a horse _alone_, and even though she had a few spasms in her back, she still felt good.

She'd been following the program for three months, and this was where it had led her. She wondered how much faster she'd have healed if she'd submitted to it from the beginning.

Not only did she feel stronger again, but Castle had explained the plan - how they were going after Bracken - and while it was low level stuff and nowhere near as close to being over as she needed it to be, she knew it was a place to start.

And with Castle on her side, she felt like she could do this. She could work her way back to a healthier involvement with her mother's case, the case against Bracken. Castle wasn't always here, of course, and she knew she couldn't depend on him to be her crutch, her lifesaver. She had to do it alone. But.

She had found her center again while cooped up here at Stone Farm, and with Castle as a reminder, a place to get back to, she could keep that balance.

She could.

When the barn came into view, she felt better - not just in her body, which was healing - but also in her soul. A kind of hesitant truce had fallen over her. Not yet peace, but a truce. A surrender to the time she'd needed - and still had in front of her - to gain strength.

Still. Three months.

She'd missed him. She hadn't realized it until he'd shown up on the path to the barn, but she craved him. His presence, his body, his touch. Maybe she'd been too self-absorbed, too focused on her injury to notice before, but she'd missed having him.

She'd maybe even missed his bullying, his sense of dominating pride and his intensity.

Maybe.

Hm. Maybe not.

Castle dismounted before they even made it to the pasture, and then he reached back to lead both horses towards the barn, the sunlight on his hair, his forearm thick.

Beckett dismounted to the block without his help, but when Castle brushed down their rides in the stalls, she only watched. Repetitive movement still hurt too much and she couldn't lift her arm over her head for long. But Castle. In his flannel shirt and dark jeans, the flare of his shoulders and the afternoon light spilling over his face, Castle looked beautiful, _ripe_. The hum he had to soothe the horses as he worked made her body vibrate in concert.

She loved him.

Castle. So broad and with his shirt sweat-stained in a line down his spine, darkly at his waist. His arms flexed as he worked and the sharp smell of horse and hay made her blood pulse in her thighs.

She came up at his back when he hung the brush on the hook outside the stall, slid her fingers around to his abs, let her touch trail under his shirt. He sucked in a breath and went still, so she pressed her body against him.

"Beckett," he choked out.

She wanted him, so badly, wanted that connection they had when they were together, the way she created something with him, the way he made her feel like she could be more than just. . .broken.

She could be more.

"Castle," she breathed, pressing herself hard into his back.

"Don't be cruel, Beckett," he muttered.

She put her teeth to his neck and he was jerking her around his body and searing his mouth to hers. His tongue was forceful, widening her, stroking deep until she thought she'd choke, and his fingers gripped her hips and drove them closer together.

She moaned and clutched his shirt, tried to tug at it, but her manual dexterity was shot and his buttons were too much; her mind was spinning. His hands were at her thighs now, bruising, and he brought her body against the wall with enough force to make her cry out.

"Beckett," he gasped, sounding horrified. He was stepping back, an arm sliding around her neck and the other skirting at her spine, investigating what damage he might have done.

"I'm okay, I'm fine," she moaned, trying to wrap her leg around his. "I just - I need you."

"But I don't want to hurt-"

"That wasn't pain, you idiot. Rick Castle, you better stop worrying about my back and just go for it." She bit at his bottom lip and tried to force every bit of strength into the grip of her hands at his shirt and the need in her eyes. "Now."

"Hayloft," he muttered. "Up, up, up."

* * *

"I can't move," she moaned. And she meant it. She couldn't move. Her back had seized up too tightly for her legs to work. She was stuck up here in the stupid barn. Sated and weak with it, warm and burrowed down into a bed of hay with him - the hay only slightly scratchy - but still.

"Are you serious?" he groaned back, his body still heated under hers. She curled her toes to the back of his calves to take out the chill.

"Serious. And the sun is setting and it's getting cold," she muttered.

"Didn't hear you complaining a few minutes ago."

"Few minutes ago you were keeping me warm. Now you're just a lumpy mattress."

He laughed and wrapped his arms around her, but instead of snuggling in, he moved her to one side, draped his flannel shirt over her. "I'll go get you some warmer clothes, a couple blankets. Don't move."

He was already disappearing down the ladder. He was going to leave her here? She couldn't even shift position to reach for him, let alone get down. "Castle."

He stopped, his head at her eye level, his face somehow boyish and shy and happy.

Her panic melted away in a moment. "Maybe a couple pain relievers," she said with a soft sigh.

He nodded. "Got it. Be right back."

And then he was thumping to the barn floor. She tried to curl up, but she couldn't manage even that.

* * *

He'd been gone for a long time when she roused, shivering, and realized the sun had set. Her back was still a mass of knots and she tried slowly to curl her legs up towards her chest but she was hopelessly tense. Spasms fluttered in her back and down her legs.

She swallowed and drew her arms into her chest for warmth, her cheek scratching against the hay. He'd left his flannel shirt over her back, but the thin tshirt she'd worn was little protection. She hadn't even gotten her jeans back on, only her underwear.

At least there was that.

Beckett pushed against the loft floor and felt her back spasm hard, dragging her down. She grunted and let out a breath but wouldn't unlock her arms, wouldn't give in to the shaking that kept her from rising up.

A clattering in the barn below caught her attention and collapsed her back to the hay; she groaned and closed her eyes, but already she could hear him thumping up the ladder.

He'd come back.

Of course he had. Why had she-

"Hey, Beckett. Look what I got. Regular camp out. I - oh. Kate? Kate, are you-"

She opened her eyes and waved him off, realized she was trying to draw her knees up to protect herself and still couldn't. "I'm fine. Fell asleep. Woke cold."

"Yeah. I took too long. I was afraid of that," he muttered, and his fingers drew through her gnarled hair. "But I brought food. And blankets. And pain reliever. You still can't walk, can you? I wear you out, Beckett?"

"I hate you," she muttered, but she opened her eyes and smiled at him. He was only a foot away, and his palm came warm to her cheek as he leaned in to kiss her.

"You don't have any pants on, baby."

"The hell you say-"

He pressed his mouth to hers again, cutting her off, and then leaned back in the hay beside her, still in his dirty, horse-smelly jeans. He'd pulled on another shirt though, sometime when he'd been gone, and he stroked his fingers down her back as he put a hand behind his head to look at her.

"Cold, Castle."

"Oh, yeah. Oops. Let me get that blanket." He jerked up and pulled a blanket out of a bag he'd brought with him, settled it over her. It was fleece and immediately warmer, and she felt the knot at the base of her spine release. She slowly slid a knee up and felt infinitely better for the movement.

His fingers brushed the hair back from her face and she managed to shift to her side, curled up under the blanket. "What about that food, Castle?"

He grinned at her, the concern slipping out of his eyes, and he turned back to his bag. "You want me to help you get your pants on?"

She huffed and wormed upright while he pulled stuff out of his bag. "No. I can get my pants on-"

"You certainly got them off," he smirked.

"And yours as well," she shot back, lifting an eyebrow at him. He grinned, that eye-crinkling smile that made his whole face beautiful, and she pulled the blanket up to her neck. She couldn't actually manage getting her jeans back on, but soon. Soon. Just had to warm up enough to loosen her muscles.

"Okay, here's cheese and crackers. And wine. So the pain pills are just the little ones, but I could-"

"Perfect. Wine might do more to help me than those horse pills anyway."

He lifted an eyebrow pointedly and it took her entirely too long to realize they were right above actual horses. She laughed and leaned her head back into the hay built up behind her, uncurled her fingers from the blanket, wriggled them at him.

"You want something, Beckett? Your super spy perhaps?"

She bit her bottom lip until he got closer, then hooked her fingers at his ear. "No, _baby_, your wine. Hand it over."

He chuckled and brushed his mouth over hers, made her eyelids flutter shut with the soft, tender way he touched her. And then he was passing the bottle to her hand and closing her fingers over it.

"You gonna open the bottle for us, Castle, or what?" she muttered, eyeing him.

He grinned. "Knew you needed me for something."

She handed it back and he worked the cork out of the bottle; apparently it'd already been opened and all he had to do was twist it a little. When it came out with a soft pop, she sighed and grinned up at him.

"You first," he said, giving it to her with a salute. "No glasses."

She took a steady pull of the bottle and nearly choked, the burn more than she expected, the taste overflowing in her mouth. He took the bottle from her and handed her pain reliever instead. She tossed two back and grabbed the wine again, washed it down.

He took the bottle from her for his own sip, then nudged the cheese her direction; she realized she was starving.

"This what you were doing? You were gone ages, Castle."

"Picnic in the hayloft. Thought it'd be fun."

She scraped her fingernail over the edge of a cracker and brought it up, then she lifted her eyes to look at him. She caught the crooked smile he was giving her, the hope that suffused his face.

"Fun," she mused. "Well. Hand me more wine then, Castle."

Already the knots in her back were easing up, unraveling, and she pushed a cracker into her mouth, licking her thumb.

"More wine," he murmured, giving it back, and then he shifted to sit beside her, his shoulder to hers. He was propping her up and she let her head rest against him. When she curled her fingers around the neck of the bottle, she realized she didn't want it as much as she wanted this.

Him.

His arm came around her to tug the blanket up and his thumb caressed her cheek. She closed her eyes, realized she could relax.

He was here.

* * *

The look on her face when Castle had finally gotten everything up in the loft had broken his heart. She'd had her eyes closed, hopelessness etched into every line. Like a lost little girl. Like she'd never-

He sighed and stroked his fingers over the edge of her eyebrow, watched her push another cheese wedge into her mouth. She hummed and turned into him, her leg tangling between his, her hand clutching at his shirt.

He'd made them a little nest out of blankets and a couple pillows, had yanked sweatpants out of his bag for her when she looked morosely at her jeans, and then had the privilege of watching her squirm into those for a good few minutes. Then she'd curled up at his side again and they'd eaten cheese and crackers, finished off the wine, and he was familiarly buzzed and happy.

Apparently the wine and her pills made Beckett a little handsy but also a lot tired. He turned her towards his chest and cuddled her on top of him. She rocked her hips over his thigh even while she yawned and pressed her cheek to his shoulder. He drew the blanket up a little higher and tried again to comb his fingers through her hair as she fell asleep.

Hopelessly snarled. Had she not brushed her hair? Could she?

When he'd gone into their bedroom for her sweatpants, he'd seen their dirty clothes were piled up in the corner again. Hadn't Logan helped her take it to the laundry room, helped her wash them? Castle had meant to when he'd been back before, but. . .

Her face was shadowed in the twilight; fine lines cracked the corners of her eyes. Her phone had been on the bedside table, he remembered, the white case now dirty with wear. Like she'd repeatedly held it.

Her hair. The more he petted through it, the worse he realized it was. He picked out the hay, one by one, each piece of straw as she slept. But more than that, she had knots in her hair that came from the wild way it dried, like she couldn't managed to comb it out.

Thinking about it now, he hadn't seen her arms go over her head for any length of time, hadn't seen her lift her right arm to hook around his neck or put the flannel shirt on. She was still limited. And so - what? She'd stood in the shower and let the water run over her hair, but what then?

He'd seen the way the pain flashed over her face when he'd caught her hand and pushed it to the floor, his body over hers. But he hadn't thought about what it meant. Had she struggled in the shower to wash her hair, using one arm until it shook, until she growled in frustration and gave it up?

He wouldn't ask. But tomorrow, he'd stay a little later, no matter what Black said, and he'd help her shower instead of her doing it alone. Why had he ever thought that Beckett would ask Logan for help? Anyone for help at all? She'd been doing her hair all alone - everything, all alone.

Once she'd started feeling better, she had pushed him out to reestablish their normal boundaries, and he'd been hurt and stupid and focused on saving her in the only way left to him - her mother's case.

But she'd been right, hadn't she? She'd regained her dignity and her strength these last three months and he'd started to see her as a woman again, not just the partner who'd thrown herself in the path of a bullet for him.

Tomorrow morning. He was going to stick around, pay attention like he should have all along. He'd wash her hair and brush it out, get rid of the tangles and maybe braid it again. She had liked that, right? She would let him help.

She'd let him stay.

He tried again to work his fingers through her hair, but it was almost impossible. And he didn't want her to wake. After their round in the hayloft, she would need her sleep. He didn't want her to regret the. . .ride.

He pressed his lips to the top of her head in a smile and she hummed against him, curling a little tighter, and he realized her fingers were hooked into the buttons of his shirt, as if to keep him with her.

He liked them there.


	14. Chapter 14

**Close Encounters 3.5**

* * *

Beckett woke to the snort and rustle of horses, the autumn moonlight silvering her lashes. She opened her eyes and winced, turned her head over the soft flannel at her cheek and sought the deepest shadows.

An arm came around her and she jerked, realized she was lying on top of Castle and it was sometime in the middle of the night and she'd fallen asleep in the hayloft.

"Castle."

"Hey there," he murmured, and the smooth, low quality of his voice let her know he'd been awake for a while. "You ready to climb down?"

She braced herself but she could move, she actually could draw her knees up and straighten, pushing off against his chest and smiling at the wonderful, loose-

Ouch.

Okay, not loose. But close. Not terrible, awful knots, just a little stiff.

"If you climb down that ladder, Beckett, I'll give you a massage when we finally crawl into bed."

"That sounds heavenly," she sighed, shifting back to sit on his thigh and knee. He jerked and grabbed her, bodily lifting her off of him, and she startled at the strength of his grip and the swift pain that flashed across his face.

"Castle," she gasped.

"Nothing. It's nothing. Just can't carry you down the stairs."

So that was why he hadn't insisted on being gallant and stupid. He'd done something to his knee? "What happened?" she said, curling her fingers around his thigh and sliding down to his knee.

He snagged her hand, brought it to his lips with a smile. "Nothing. Just bruised. Can't have your bony ass sitting on it."

She gave him the smile he sought and leaned in to press a kiss against that lying mouth. She'd concentrate on getting down the ladder first, and then she'd do a thorough catalog of every scrape, every bruise, every ligament of his out of joint.

* * *

Castle pressed his thumbs into the muscles along her spine and Kate gasped against the mattress.

"Too much?"

"No, no. Keep going."

"Should I avoid-"

"No, just don't press on the scar too hard."

He settled over her ass and pushed his thumbs up her spine and made sure not to pull on the scar, couldn't help but study it closely. She was on her stomach in their bed, her eyes closed, and he could feel every knot and kink in her body under his hands. She was slowly beginning to melt.

The scar was pink but it no longer looked quite so angry, so fresh. The edges were stark at the bottom but had faded into her skin at the top, like a brutal kiss that had only now begun to dull, subsumed into the flat line of her back, right below her shoulder blade.

Her skin was freckled on her shoulders, like she'd been sitting in the sun while he'd been gone. There were other changes as well. Her jaw had that sharp hook to it, the one he loved to put his lips to, but her mouth was a line of rigid sorrow he hadn't seen before.

He dug deep into her shoulders and found not just knots that he could quickly unravel, but the ridge of muscle that spoke of hours of physical therapy. He put a warm hand over her scar and skimmed his other hand down her arm to her elbow.

"Can you move it?" he murmured.

"Slowly," she said, her voice coming through the muffling of the pillow.

He eased her elbow up and felt the contraction in her back, the muscles working, but no resistance yet. She let out a slow breath as he moved her arm, and then her hand was up by her head and he could feel the tension rippling beneath his palm.

But her fingers curled and she turned her head, then her body under him so that she was on her back. He lifted his eyebrows, kept his weight on his knees as she grinned slowly. Her fingers wriggled in a little wave.

"See what I can do?"

He laughed and placed his hands in the mattress at her head, dipped down to kiss her softly. She growled and arched up into him, but he felt her draw her arm into her chest, protecting it still. Her hand landed at his sternum, fingers stroking.

"My turn," she whispered, intent and fierce and knowing. "You're hurt too."

* * *

He didn't want her to know, but she went over his body with her fingers, tracing the purpled flesh of his bruises, her eyes that unfathomable darkness, her lips drawn down in grief for him. Instead of letting her dwell on all the ways he'd failed, all the beatings, all the grazed bullets, all the times he hadn't been quick enough, he found himself getting out of bed and tugging out the book.

Mark Eastman's book.

He had shoved it into the bottom drawer of the dresser, unable to face it - nearly four months ago.

He pulleded his tshirt on and settled back in bed with her, made her cease fretting over his war wounds and instead stand by him to face this. He needed the support. A partner.

"What's this?" she murmured, and now her fingers trailed across the leather cover. "It looks old."

"Eastman's. Carrie said - he'd written her these letters and anyway, I guess they were about the things he'd done and always wanted to tell her. But couldn't."

Her face lifted to his, a startled and beautiful sorrow in her eyes. "Oh. Oh, that's. . .gorgeous."

"Yeah, Carrie. . .yeah. He was joking with her in a letter, and the way she said it - it was like she'd had an actual conversation with him. Anyway, he said in a letter that I'd probably enjoy this book - this is his family's ancestry. Someone traced their roots and put it all down."

Kate's fingers stilled over the book, her hand curled up. "His family?"

"She told me that his name wasn't Eastman," he said quietly. "And I knew that. I knew it couldn't be. Just like mine isn't Castle-"

"It is Castle," she said quickly, her hand splaying across the cover. "It isn't Black."

She was tense beside him in the bed, the covers pulled up to her waist, her hair loose and tangled around her face. He cupped her cheek and kissed her for that, for her protective and sharp defense of him, instinctive as it was. He'd never had a defender before.

Her mouth opened under him, let him slide right in without hesitance, and even though he wanted to show her this book, he wanted more to have her kissing him like this.

Soft. Sure. Tender.

He realized she hadn't been like that in the barn, that she'd been frustrated and wanting and driven crazy, maybe even angry - and that she'd been demanding and in control, but not this.

She was kissing him like he needed it, like she wanted to give him what he needed.

He couldn't be sure he didn't. Need it. Need her. Need the surety of her, and the tenderness, and the way she made him more than just a spy with no home.

"Rick," she murmured into his mouth. It was question and answer both, and even if they were sometimes terrible for each other - desperate and broken and raw - there were more times like this.

Whole and right and forgiving.

"Does this book tell you Eastman's real name?" she said finally, drawing back enough to rub her thumb over his lips slowly.

He nodded.

Kate turned to the book and spread her hand over it. "Then let's find out."

He swallowed and grasped the front cover, opened to the first page.

_Line and Lineage of the Pearce-Klein Family_

* * *

She'd fallen asleep when they'd only gotten through a few of the earliest stories - Scottish royalty and a Hessian soldier - so Castle closed the book and laid it on the bedside table. His hand came back naturally to her hair; he couldn't resist the wild kink of it, smiled to himself as his fingers tangled in it again.

Full of knots. _Really, Beckett, what are you doing?_

A knock came at the door and he tensed, glanced down to Kate, but she was still asleep.

"Come in," he said cautiously, then saw the door open and Logan pop his head in.

"Hey, man. Ragle wanted me to check on you guys. You disappeared this afternoon. The horse riding go okay?"

Castle's training took over and he knew not a drop of amusement flickered across his face. "Went well. She's definitely recovering quickly."

Logan grinned, his hand easing from the knob. "She's going fast too. Everything on her own."

Everything on her-

"What do you mean?"

"No help," Logan said with another flashing smile. "No help getting to PT, no help showering, dressing, eating. All by herself for at least - oh, I don't know - the last three months? She's doing great. But hey, we're closing it up for the night. You need anything before I go?"

He shook his head mutely and the door closed after Logan, but Castle's heart was like a stone.

All of it. Alone?

_For three months._

The exact time Castle had been. . .well-

Gone.

He'd been gone, hadn't he? He'd abandoned her, a woman who'd been orphaned by her mother's murder and betrayed by her Captain's silence.

And now Castle had as well.

* * *

She wasn't surprised to wake with the light and find herself alone, and for a moment, she laid in the bed just breathing, deeper breaths than she'd been able to accomplish in months, let herself luxuriate in this proof of wholeness.

Almost. The scar still pulled.

She was lying on her good shoulder, so she tilted to her back slowly, felt the mattress hitting her spine and pushing on her scar. It hurt, but it wasn't unmanageable. Actually, she was-

A rustling popped her eyes open and she turned her head towards the window, saw Castle sitting in a chair, his silhouette from the morning sun coming in around him. He had a cheap plastic pen in his hand but he dropped it on the windowsill along with whatever he'd been making notes on, and he stood and came towards her.

"Morning," he said, sounding sheepish but offering her a hand.

"Morning." She allowed him to help her sit up and then glanced past him to the bathroom, tried to gear herself up for a shower.

She was worn out with it already, and she'd just opened her eyes.

"What are you still doing here?" she murmured. "I thought you said you and the team were raiding a massage parlor this morning."

"The team is. They don't need me for that today. I'm gonna go into the office later and do some research on Bracken's financials. The sex trafficking money is big time stuff, so it has to be going somewhere."

"Oh," she muttered. "You didn't need to stick around, Castle. Just because of me-"

"I'm not sticking around just for you," he said smoothly, and she realized he'd gone back to the window for his pen and notebook. Actually, that was _her_ notebook, her detective's notebook.

"Where'd that come from?"

He glanced at it like he hadn't realized he'd picked it up. "Oh, it was with your uniform hat. That day you were shot," he said, and she saw the flush climb his cheeks. "You want it back?"

When she shot. Oh. "No. No, I meant. What were you doing with it?"

"Making notes about the case," he said, moving to drop it on the dresser. "Now come on. I want breakfast and you've slept late."

She glanced to the clock. "It's eight."

He grinned back at her, lifted an eyebrow. "But I eat at five. So hustle up, Beckett."

"I need to shower-"

"Breakfast first. I'm starving. I'll make us my famous scrambled eggs. Then you can shower."

After he left. It went unsaid but it was sorta sweet that he wanted her company. Fine. Whatever. A change in her routine wasn't going to kill her.

"All right. Breakfast first."

* * *

He kept a close eye on her as she ate, tried not to let her catch him at it. She had a good appetite, much better than it had been, and she'd made french toast while he'd made the eggs. It was nice, bumping hips with her inside the farmhouse's small kitchen, feeling the warmth of her at his side like any other, regular morning.

Almost like it had been. He had visions of maple syrup and that devious smile on her face when she'd promised him it'd be worth the empty calories.

At the table, she sat up, her back away from the chair, and her movements were precise, calculated. She was efficient, no unnecessary flutters of her hand or dips of her head, and while he missed those small and graceful accents to her personality, she still seemed at ease.

When they walked back down the hall towards their room, having an easy conversation about the number of horses held in the barn and how long the CIA had operated Stone Farm, he did pick up on some latent stiffness in her hips, like it wasn't easy for her. And she held her arm carefully, like her shoulder was still painful.

Had to be. She'd been shot in the back. He hadn't expected her healing to go quite as quickly as it had, actually. He'd been shot before and he knew what it took to come back.

He couldn't imagine how she'd managed breakfast after a physical therapy session, even less how she'd managed a shower - the movement over her head to get at her hair had to be impossible for her right now.

But she'd said nothing to him about it. He'd gone from hovering to disappearing, like a switch had been flipped, but it'd been _for_ her the whole time. Her safety, her needs. He'd been wrong in both extremes.

She didn't need him to hover. Look at her. She had recovered faster without him acting like a crutch these past three months.

But she still needed him for some things. It wasn't okay that he had abandoned her either.

Abandoned her.

That's what he'd done. His father had scared him and he'd gone running back with his tail tucked between his legs, left Beckett all alone. And of course she hadn't let Logan help her at all; it'd taken Castle's overbearing bullying to get her to relent to any help in the first place.

He was an idiot. And worse - because once more he'd allowed this case to drag one of them under.

Damn it.

"Castle? You leaving?"

He stood in the threshold and watched her carefully sliding her socks off her feet, getting ready for a shower.

"No," he said roughly. "Not yet."

And then he pushed into the room and moved past her for the bathroom.

"What are you doing?"

"Starting the shower."

He'd be damned if he let it go on like this.

* * *

She had no idea what he was doing, but he'd turned on the water and hadn't come back out yet. Did he expect her to submit weakly to his commands? She'd been doing this for months without him.

Beckett scratched at her neck and curled her arm into her chest. Her skin was itchy from last night, hay and horse and-

She felt the flash of heat climb her chest as she remembered why exactly she felt so grimy this morning, and then she wondered if Castle was looking for a repeat in the shower.

She'd like to, but she couldn't manage that. It'd be impossible. And in that clawfoot bathtub, even if she were up to it, it'd be a near thing.

Still, she needed a shower. She could try washing her hair again this morning, see if she could get it with one arm. She'd done a passable job the day before, but yesterday her muscles had been so worn out after physical therapy that she'd just let the water sluice her off and hoped it'd be good enough.

She was damn tired of being an invalid.

Beckett wandered to the dresser as she slowly worked one-handed at the buttons of Castle's flannel shirt. He'd put it over her last night and she'd realized it was easier to get on and off than a tshirt - another point for Castle. She got the flannel down one shoulder and then maneuvered it off the other one, watched it drop to the floor.

It pooled at her feet and she grasped the hem of her tank top, gritted her teeth and attempted to wriggle it off, but it wasn't coming. Fuck that hurt this morning.

Yesterday in the hayloft was coming back to bite her.

She moved on to the sweatpants. Easy enough. She'd work at her shirt later. Her hips were narrow enough that the sweatpants slid right down. Kate was pleased with her effort and she put a hand out to the drawer to gather clothes to change into.

Her eyes were drawn to her notebook. The small leather notepad her father had bought her when she made detective. She didn't use it on the job, really; it was mostly too small for what she liked to do. But from time to time, it came in handy.

She remembered stuffing it and her badge in her uniform hat before going to the funeral. As talismans or mementos. Something. She couldn't remember what happened to them after that, but apparently Castle had kept them for her.

"Beckett."

"Coming," she yelled back, but she found her hand reaching for the notebook and drawing it to her chest.

She flipped through the pages slowly, recognizing her own neat handwriting from cases years past. A witness's description, a hasty notation of a license plate, the number of an all-night Chinese place-

And then Castle's handwriting, cramped and narrow, a little messy, strange in her own notebook. He approached cases completely differently than she did, and she was intrigued to learn how he might be working Bracken.

She shivered, remembering that she was only in a tank top, and scanned his lines looking for something she recognized.

_I was a man without roots. You want my story - well you already have it - it's nothing. I can't give you lineages and family crests; there are no stalwart soldiers or brave knights riding out from this Castle. There is just a man. Until you. You had had it all along, my story; the words were caught up in you. With you, now the stories can begin._

She gaped at the words, her fingers trembling, and sat down hard on the bed.

He'd written this.

She fumbled back through the pages until she found the beginning.

_Dear Kate_

He'd written this for _her._

* * *

Castle didn't understand the look on her face when she came in through the door; he'd already stripped off his shirt but had left his shorts on, the water was running hot through the moaning pipes, and he was ready to fight her on this if he had to.

But she didn't fight.

"Hey," she said softly.

She came to him in the middle of the bathroom, her tank top rucked up at her hips, so he slid his hands around her waist and skimmed her ribs, watching her.

"Hey there," he murmured back. Her sides were so smooth, her skin warm to his touch.

"You. . ." But she trailed off. She was studying him, her eyes intent on his, but he didn't know what she was looking for.

"Ready to shower?" He moved one hand to let his fingers snag in her hair, scraping it back from her face. She swayed into him and her eyes slipped closed.

"Ready," she murmured.

Carefully, he drew the tank top over her head and tossed it to the floor; she shivered and he saw the way she held her arm close, but she was already moving for the bathtub, pushing aside the curtain.

She disappeared into the shower, and Castle took a fortifying breath and then went in after her.

* * *

She'd never survive the way he looked at her.

Not after those words written into her notebook, not after the heat of them had settled so deep in her bones she'd never forget.

She was already lost. Hopeless against him.

And why would she ever want to be against him?

He slid his hands into her hair and the shampoo made soapy lines down her neck and over her shoulders. The water beat hard at her spine but it eased the ache between her shoulder blades and worked at the knots in the small of her back. Every time her eyes opened, she couldn't avoid him - his intensity and his love and his need - and she could barely stand up.

He turned her around under the spray, his fingers scraping at her scalp to rinse the soap out. She felt the cloying heat along her skin and his body at her back; he reached past her for the conditioner.

"You don't have to-"

"Can't get the tangles out without it," he said. The low tone of his voice competed with the white noise of the water and sizzled through her like electricity.

She stood still while he easily worked the conditioner into her hair, felt him tugging at the knots already. She knew it was bad, but she hadn't realized how bad, not until he chuckled and started spreading strands of hair on the bathroom wall, held it up in front of her eyes as it clung to his fingers.

"This normal?"

She sighed. "Yes. Just. Haven't managed to do it myself," she admitted. It was always worse when she couldn't brush it out.

He didn't say anything to that, just continued to soak conditioner in her hair and smooth his fingers through it as best he could.

She turned at the touch on her good shoulder, tilted her head back to let him work all the soap out again. His thumbs at her temples were hypnotic and firm, but he was soon finished and guiding her out of the shower, shutting off the water with a flip of his wrist.

She woke from the trance of his touch to grab for a towel, catching it around her body and drying her eyes, squeezing water out of her hair. Castle's shorts were soaked and plastered to his thighs, and she lifted an eyebrow at him. He shrugged at her.

"I'll change. Give me a second."

He left her in the bathroom to dry off and she went about it slowly, being sure to keep her balance as she rubbed the towel down each leg. Castle was back in a moment with a little wooden chair he'd brought in from the bedroom.

She sank into it gratefully, the towel tucked around her breasts, and she realized Castle was already scraping his fingers through her scalp, trying to tame the wild mane. Her back touched the wood of the chair but she was pleasantly surprised to find that it didn't hurt. Too much.

He grabbed the comb from the counter and dragged it through her hair, her body swaying with the downward stroke. The steam from the shower still curled through the bathroom and touched her skin with moist warmth. Two of his fingers were at her neck as if to hold her still, and the comb scraped over her scalp and worked at the tangles, his every movement strong but careful.

"I love your hair," he murmured, and he used his fingers to work out a snag, his hands warm at her neck.

"I love your hands," she said, didn't mean to say it. She'd said it once yesterday on their ride, and she hadn't meant to ever let it come out of her mouth again. At least, not earnestly like that. She flushed and closed her eyes to feel the deft way he untangled each strand.

She thought he was grinning. He had to be; she could practically hear it. "The hair at your neck is so soft," he grumbled, not in frustration but that low arousal that always licked at her belly. His fingers stroked as if to remind himself of the feel of her hair. "And it stays flat. But this here, around your face - it's crazy curly, kinks up."

She opened her eyes and saw his form in the fogged mirror; the chair creaked with her movement. "I usually blow dry it straight. And I have this oil I put on it to keep it soft."

"I like it curly," he sighed, and his fingers came through and snagged again. "All these tangles. Beckett, you haven't been-"

"No," she said quickly. "I can almost-"

"But for the last three months? Logan would have-"

"No, Castle."

He went silent as he worked at the snarls with her comb, but she knew that he was upset about it. She couldn't understand why. It was her hair.

"I should've been here," he said finally.

"Why?" she asked, lifting her eyes to him in the mirror. She still couldn't see much, but his image was beginning to clear. "Why should you-"

"To do this. To do all the things you need done."

"Castle," she bit out, gritted her teeth to keep from snapping at him. "I can do it myself."

He yanked at a particular dense snarl of hair and she narrowed her eyes at him for it.

"Obviously, you can't," he said back. "You can't even brush your hair, Kate."

"But it's pretty much the only thing, Castle. The only thing. I can walk. I can put on my clothes. I can make my own breakfast. I don't need you hovering over me, crippling me-"

"Kate." His hand clenched around her hair; she could sense that it was tight, that he was trying to control himself.

She swallowed her irritation and tried to come up with better words. "I don't want you tied to me, Castle. We're partners, not-"

"We're partners, and I should've been here."

"I want you _out there_, Castle. Doing your job. Just like I want to be doing my job. You have to do it for both of us right now, but soon I'll be able to take up the slack."

"You were shot. _In my place_. I'm-"

"Don't feel so damn obligated. You're not chained to me for life because of it. I'm a cop, Castle. It's what I'm trained to do."

"And that's all?" he growled. "It was just training."

She groaned and rubbed a hand over her face. "No. Of course not. But you can't keep acting like it's so terrible a thing - me trying to save your life. It's what partners do, Castle. Shit."

"Then let me do this. We're partners. Let me-"

"No. I don't need you taking care of me like I'm a child."

"Well, but you-"

"I can _walk._ I can make my own damn breakfast. I need to do those things if I'm going to get stronger, build my endurance."

"But this, I can help-"

"Damn it," she said heatedly. "Go do your job. Shit. I'll just scrape it back until I can manage it on my own. I'll cut it off if I have to."

He let go of her hair and stepped away, the comb falling to his side. She could see the distance in the mirror, but she couldn't make out his features. His quiet was telling, but the lack of him was gnawing at her insides. Three months and she'd been fine, and one night in a hayloft and she couldn't bear not having him.

He made her crazy. And she ached for it.

And so maybe just now she had overreacted.

"Castle," she started but didn't know what to say.

He was shifting past her to put the comb back on the counter; his withdrawal was like a physical blow. She turned in the wooden chair and snagged him by the wrist before he could leave.

"Rick. I need to be able to walk on my own, make my own breakfast, dress myself. But I was wrong. I still. . ." She lowered her eyes to his hand caught by hers, brought it up to her lips to softly kiss his knuckles. She felt his fingers twitch against her mouth. "I still need your touch. I still want it. So please. Finish."

He unfurled his fingers and pushed them into her hair; she let go of him and lifted her eyes once more to his. She was no good at asking for help, even more terrible at accepting it.

"Kate," he murmured and came to his knees beside the chair, cradling the side of her face. "Love."

And then helplessness fell over his face, and he could only stare at her.

She remembered the writing in her notebook, and she leaned in and kissed his open, wordless mouth.

She hoped they could find ways to forgive each other.


	15. Chapter 15

**Close Encounters 3.5**

* * *

"I have to go," he said, eyebrows knit as he looked at her.

She smiled though and stood up. Slowly. But she stood. And she wasn't swaying. "I have a session with Fezzik anyway."

He hesitated still, turned back to her in the doorway even as she tried to push past him. He let her go, watched her walk down the hall. She seemed confident, sexy even as she turned to look at him over her shoulder. He smiled and followed.

She glanced to the kitchen which led out to the back porch. "You going?"

He nodded and left her at the door to the physical therapy room, changed his mind to come back for her. He grabbed her wrist to stop her and her eyebrow lifted at him. He let go and reached up for her neck instead, brought her close enough to kiss softly. Softly.

She hummed and her fingers touched the skin at his neck, stroked. "Go to work, Castle."

She pushed him away and went into the room as if confident he was on his way, but he stopped. He stopped and when the door shut, he couldn't help but watch her through the window set into the door.

Beckett was led to the table, but she didn't get up on it. The physical therapist, who he remembered was actually named Robert, had her working immediately. A bright purple exercise ball seemed merely a torture device, and she sat on it and allowed Fesik to manipulate her arm. Castle could see every contorted knot of agony on her face as her shoulder worked.

He didn't know how long he stood there, watching her nostrils flare, the heat of her frustration and anger and pain, but then it went too far, or just far enough, and she cried out.

His heart was pounding; he stumbled closer.

She gasped and dropped her chin, eyes closed; he put his hand to the door knob but she tilted her head back and swallowed hard. He could see it moving through her throat, the shaking in her tense body as Robert pushed her, manipulated her arm.

And then tears. Silent and sleek, tears dripping down her face.

But she didn't stop. She kept working, kept moving, stuck with the program.

Still those tears didn't let up.

* * *

He didn't leave. He couldn't. But he also didn't want to hover, to interrupt. The observer altered the results just by observing. So he kept out of her way, didn't let her know he was there.

When the physical therapy was over, he haunted the room across the hall and listened to Beckett make her slow way down to their bedroom. There was a thud, as if a body had fallen against the wall just outside where he was hidden, and he tensed, but she must've gotten her feet under her and moved on.

His heart was pounding and he slowly slipped out of the room. He took a long breath in the hall and imagined he could taste her sweat and work on the very air. When he stepped closer, he heard her grunt and the whimper of pain, the growl afterwards as if she was frustrated with herself.

He couldn't see her, but it was as if he were standing in the room with her.

When he heard the shower come on, he took another few steps down the hallway and waited. He heard her just on the other side, pulling off her clothes, the noises she made as she struggled. And then when enough time had passed, he carefully opened the door.

The room was empty, the shower running, and he moved towards the bathroom to look.

He pulled back into the room with his heart pounding, hands in fists, and he tilted his head back.

The curtain hadn't been pulled all the way, like she hadn't the energy to try, and he'd seen - in that one brief glimpse - Kate Beckett huddled at the bottom of the bath tub, her chin on her knees, her eyes closed, and the water running down over her face like she hadn't the breath or strength to care.

* * *

He stayed, ghosting the Farm's halls until she was out of the shower. It took her forty-five minutes, and when she was finally done, when she'd crawled out of the tub and stumbled to her feet, she had only a towel draped over her back.

Castle watched as she collapsed into bed and curled up, the towel over her shoulders, her legs pushed down beneath the sheets, but nothing else. She was asleep before she was even in the bed, her eyes closed and her body slumping into the mattress. She hadn't even noticed him.

He came into the room then. He'd already called Black and told him he wasn't reporting in today; he'd spent the time Beckett was in the shower rearranging his schedule and designating assignments for his team. They didn't need him there; she did.

He slid off his jacket, hung it over the chair, slowly unbuttoned his dress shirt. He toed off his shoes as he pulled his shirt off, folded it. He left his pants and undershirt on - they were comfortable enough - and then he carefully crawled into bed with her.

She didn't wake when he curled his arm under her neck, didn't wake when he arranged her at his side and over his thigh so that she could sleep. Her hair was wet, tangled again though not as badly, and he combed his fingers through it, the damp strands spreading out over her back.

She shivered in her sleep and he drew the covers up tighter, stroked the hair from her face and kissed her forehead. He'd stay just like this until she woke.

And then they were going to talk.

There was a lot to apologize for.

* * *

She woke to the steady brush of fingers in her hair and the rhythm of his heart under her ear.

"Castle?" she groaned and curled in, but couldn't lift her head.

Her body was a mess of aches and knots, and a weariness had taken up residence in her bones, but his arms came up around her and cradled her close, his fingers in the hair at her neck and his palm at her scar like a heating pad.

"What day is it?" she muttered. Had she slept straight through? That had happened before. Fuck, not good. Her back ached and if she'd skipped a session it would be that much worse.

"Still today," he laughed softly. "I'm early. Actually. I never left."

"What?" She lifted her head this time and saw the clouded uncertainty in his eyes. She'd never seen him hesitate. Never. "Castle?"

"I couldn't leave, Kate. I just. . .can't keep leaving you."

"You should have," she growled, trying to push off of him. She hated conversations when she felt like this, weak and disadvantaged. He actually let her go, and she sat up in bed, her head swimming, and she realized she wasn't wearing any clothes.

He was grinning at her, the insufferable-

"Want a shirt? bra? something?"

She shoved on his shoulder, winced as she did, but she got out of bed and stumbled for the dresser. She couldn't manage the drawers, shouldn't, but she did anyway. She jerked and felt the burn in her back but she pulled out underwear and a soft flannel shirt of his.

He came up behind her just as she was tugging the shirt on, his fingers at her waist and his chest at her back, so warm that the ache in her spine seemed to unfurl its tendrils and dissolve just at the heat of him.

Castle didn't say anything, but he pushed the buttons into their holes one by one, his mouth hovering somewhere close to her neck like a kiss.

She curled her fingers over his and brought his palm to her mouth, turned slowly in his arms to look at him. His other hand dropped to her waist and then down, skimming her ass and her bare thigh, but it was only to touch, only to draw her that much closer.

She nudged at his nose with her mouth, put his hand at her neck to show him what she wanted. But he only looked at her, studying, and wrapped his arms around her for a hug.

She laughed and lifted her head, but he was cradling her like something precious.

"Castle?"

"I shouldn't have left you," he said gruffly. "It's not right that you do this alone."

She narrowed her eyes and lifted her good arm to flick his ear. He scrunched his face at her like he didn't understand.

"Castle. What are you talking about?"

"It's not right. I should've done this differently so you wouldn't be alone-"

She wriggled and pushed on him. "You're being ridiculous. I have to do this alone. You can't do the program for me, Castle."

He ducked his head and scraped a hand down his jaw. "But the rest of it - showering and cooking lunch-"

"But I told you to go. I was the one who told you to do your job. I need it done."

He was staring at her like he'd only now actually seen her. "I know you do, Kate. But I-"

She waited, but he shook his head, pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. She stood before him and finally hooked her fingers over his and tugged a hand down. He looked brittle and guilty.

"Rick," she said softly, questioning.

He dragged her into his arms.

* * *

"I love you, Kate," he murmured, cradling her head to his shoulder. She'd resisted the embrace at first, but her fingers were curled at his waist, her breathing slow. He liked that. "I don't mean to - I just don't know how to do this right. But I love you."

"Neither of us know any better," she laughed softly. "Castle. We're both not any good at giving up control or sitting down and doing nothing. You see me struggling and you want to fix it. I know. But you can't. I am getting better though. I'm almost there."

He sighed deeply and carded his fingers through her hair. She shrugged one shoulder at him and stepped away.

"If you want to help me-?" she asked. "Then pull my hair back. It's dried funny."

He knew it was a gift, so he took it. "Okay. Get a rubber band."

She pushed on him, herded him back into the bathroom. He turned around and glanced at the sink counter. There was a pink rubber band under a wad of ace bandage, and he wondered if she was using that too. What else about her did he just not know?

He snagged the rubber band, surprised by its color. Kate Beckett owned a pink hair band. Who would've thought?

Actually. He didn't even know that. "What's your favorite color?" he asked, began scraping her hair back.

She hummed and laughed a little. "Purple."

"Oh?"

"Yours is what? Black?"

He huffed a laugh and shrugged. "I don't know. Never thought about it."

"You don't have a favorite color? What about when you were a kid?"

"Maybe green. Or orange. I don't know. That kind of thing wasn't important."

She half-turned her head to see him, but he tugged her back around with his grip on her hair, wound the rubber band around it.

"Castle, what about now? What would your favorite color be?"

"I like you in purple. Vibrant."

She was rolling her eyes; he could sense it without even seeing it.

"Or maybe. . ." He paused and snapped the rubber band into place, admiring his own work. "Look at that. Perfect."

She tossed her head a little to test it and then turned slowly to grin at him. Her fingers came to his chest and tapped. "You're getting good at this."

"I like brown," he murmured, studying her beautiful face as she smiled at him. "The brown of your eyes. Almost gold sometimes. So green others. A chameleon brown."

She blinked, but her mouth dipped into a shy smile. "Sometimes, Rick, you have beautiful words."

He had. . .what?

"I read what you wrote," she went on, lifting those eyes to his now in a swirl of color. "In my notebook. I read that letter. Part of it."

She read. . .shit. The notebook. He'd written in it again this morning, hadn't he? "It wasn't - I never meant for you to see it."

"In my own notebook?"

"I was going to tear it out. I didn't have any paper." His fingers were tingling; his hands felt too thick, awkward. He took a step back and scratched at the back of his neck.

"It was beautiful," she whispered. "Will you write me more?"

His heart was pounding out of his chest. "I'm not - I don't write."

"You wrote that."

"It was - I couldn't help - Eastman. It's his damn fault. He wrote Carrie these letters and I couldn't get it out of my head. I didn't mean to."

She kept coming for him, dressed only in a flannel shirt with her hair curling in her pony tail and wisps of it touching her cheek. Her eyes were glittering sparks in the shadow of her face.

"I want you to write me letters, Rick." She slid her left hand to his chest and up to his neck, curling her arm around him to bring him in close. He couldn't resist, especially since he knew she was using her injured side to reel him in. She was smiling at him. "Write me letters."

"Kate," he sighed.

"Please." She breathed against his mouth and touched her tongue to the seam of his lips, withdrew. "I don't want you to carry me to PT. I don't want you to supervise my wardrobe. I don't want you to hover or feel guilty about leaving me alone. I want you to write me letters - about you, about what you do, about your bruised ribs, about anything at all. Give me that."

Fuck. "That's like the scariest thing on that list, Beckett."

"But you'd do it for me?" She smiled her question against his skin and then she kissed him, devastating and slow and thorough, until he couldn't help but murmur his agreement into the heated cavern of her mouth.

Always, always, always.

* * *

She had a note on her bedside table when she woke.

The paper had been torn from her notebook and propped up like a placecard, her name written in rounded block letters, almost tentative, too small for the page. She smiled and snaked her hand out from under the covers, snagged it.

The bed was empty and cool, and she dragged the note back to her.

She flipped it open and bit her bottom lip, rolled slowly onto her back to read it, let the morning light illuminate his small print.

_Dear Kate,_

_I don't want to leave you. I want to slip my fingers through your hair and kiss your neck, watch you smile when I touch your skin with my lips. _

_But._

_I don't know how to be better than this. I don't know how to be anything other than a spy, even if it means that I keep hurting you. But I want to try. I want to be more for you. Just as you've been more for me._

_I have to be part of a takedown today. I have a team. When it's over, and the clean-up is through, I'll be back. I don't know when. I wish I could say. I wish I could give you more that just. . .this._

_Rick_

She pressed the letter closed and curled in around it, buried her face in a pillow that still faintly smelled like him. She didn't have that much time before physical therapy, she had to get dressed and get moving so that Fezzik wouldn't be working with stiff muscles, but she wanted a moment to hear the echo of his words in her head. Her heart.

He'd be back. Today or tomorrow or later. But he'd be back.

And she could do this alone until he came.

* * *

Friday, when he'd been gone for four days and she was beginning to be afraid it'd been a lot more than just a takedown, she found this on the windowsill, waiting for her like a bird with outstretched wings:

_Beckett, I'm the only one who could possibly survive being in love with a woman as cripplingly gorgeous as you._

She turned and he was there in the doorway, his hand and wrist in a brace, two fingers plastered, but a smile on his face that made her go to him.

He wrapped one arm around her tightly and pressed his mouth to her neck, a greedy line of kisses to her mouth, and then his tongue pushed inside and claimed her. She drove him back against the door frame, felt him gasp with the hit, but she snagged her fingers at the hem of his black shirt and drew it up his ribs.

He grunted in pain and she pulled back; his mouth chased, but she stopped him with her hand. He bit at the heel of her palm and suckled, and his eyes were dilated, but she brushed the back of her hand over his abs and he winced, muscles fluttering.

"What happened?"

"I made it back," he warned. "Just know first that I made it back."

"Back. Where were you? Where'd you go?"

"Bracken's getting aggressive."

"With you. Your team."

He nodded shortly.

"Oh no." She shoved up his shirt and saw the criss-crossing bruises, some old and some new, the rainbow of pain painted up his torso. She breathed out another curse and touched her cold fingers to his ribs. "Castle."

"Black's pulled me off it for a few days."

"Bracken's going after you. He - he had you somewhere? How did you escape?"

"Team came to liberate me. Black had me tracked; it was only a matter of a few hours."

She pressed her forehead to his sternum and gulped past the sudden, cloying panic. "No more. You can't-"

"I'll have to kill him if it comes to it."

She lifted her head, stared at the deadly, cold certainty in his eyes. "No more, Castle. Not without me. They're set to discharge me in a week. Black said you're off it for a few days? Perfect timing. You stay with me this week and then we do this together."

"I don't want you anywhere near-"

She gripped his shirt, tried not to hurt him more. "We do this together. You said it yourself - if you're a target, I'm a target. I took a bullet for you, Castle. Don't make that be for nothing."

He growled and she felt his hand at her hip, digging hard, but she wouldn't back down on this.

"I get cleared for active duty as soon as I pass my firearms test," she said quietly. "Then I go out on the streets of New York. What then, Castle? I won't hide away. And I know you won't either."

"I'll fucking kill him."

"That's not how it's done," she said. "Not with a senator. Not with the man who ordered my mother's death. And damn it, yours as well. No. We do this together."

He shook his head like a dog, but she pushed him back against the wall, leaning into him, pressing her body flush to his and skimming her fingers at his abs. He was hurt and it made him weak, made him easy to maneuver. She was stronger now, and she could slide her stiff arm around his neck, prove to him she could do this. Her mouth was at his jaw, along his cheek, scraping against his scruff. She rolled her hips into his slowly, then again.

He groaned. "Beckett-"

"We do this together. You promised me."

"I don't want-"

"You said you'd be better. You'd be more." She hated herself for doing it, but to keep him from going out there alone again, to keep him from killing the senator and committing an act of treason, she'd say anything. "You promised to be more for me. But you've left me here for months. Alone. You left me. Don't do it again."

"Kate," he moaned, his arms clutching around her, his forehead pressed into her neck. She held him loosely to keep from bruising him, curled her fingers at his nape. "Kate, please."

"I love you," she whispered. "You won't do this alone. Not anymore. I'm back. Just give me a week."

He shivered hard and she felt his jaw work as he ground his teeth. Too much of their relationship was about pain and anguish and suffering. She wanted to bring him light and joy; she wanted to be able to joke with him again, to tease, to feel that flush of warmth in her chest when he wrote her those letters.

"You are a beautiful man," she whispered. "And you won't do this alone. We do it together because we are stronger together. Haven't we learned that, Castle? Haven't we had that lesson beat into us? Don't let it be for nothing."

Still he seemed to resist.

She pressed her lips together and squeezed her fingers at his neck. "Rick. You said once that I don't keep you. And you don't keep me. But you're wrong. We keep each other. That's how we're strongest. Together."

His arms tightened around her and he took in a shaky breath, then he lifted his head and stared at her.

"You don't go back to the NYPD."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he shook his head and kept on.

"I can't protect you there. You can't be my partner if you're a cop. You come to work with me, Beckett. A consultant, an agent, I don't care what we call it. But you come to work with me. We keep each other."

Her chest constricted, her ribs crushing her organs until it ached to breathe.

"Work for. . .the CIA. Your father."

"For me. Not him - he won't touch us. Me."

Castle.

"Okay," she said quietly, then cleared her throat to lend some strength to her voice. "Yes. I'll go to work with you."

He didn't smile, but his face eased, his body slackened as if given a reprieve.

"Until we get Bracken," she said. "And then I go home."

His mouth hardened, his eyebrows furrowed, but he nodded. "And then you go home."

A painful fist clenched her heart at the look on his face, and she snagged his uninjured hand. "But not alone," she said in a rush. Her words tripped over her tongue. "Not alone. I won't go home alone. You come with me."

"I'm a spy-" he started to say, shaking his head.

"Yes, but - but you're mine," she interrupted, squeezing harder. "And you said you'd marry me. Remember? You're my plan, Rick Castle."

His eyes lifted to hers and she saw the darkness clear for a moment, that brilliant and beautiful blue sparkling like the sea after a storm. She smiled hopefully at him and he gave her a flickering grin, little boy found.

"I am going to marry you," he said, and the grin grew wider. "I think I'm the only one who could, Kate Beckett."

* * *

**End.**

preview of coming attractions

**Close Encounters 4: Diamonds Are Forever**

* * *

Oh, wow. This woman was good.

Very good.

She was a natural at the spy game.

Castle left her to her little act - the flighty and giggling enchantment of a woman that could not possibly be Detective Kate Beckett - and he slipped towards the park bench at the Palace of Versailles, aiming for that briefcase. Their likely suspects were all back by the reflecting pool, in various stages of amusement and interest as Beckett made something of a fool of herself for an artist sketching her.

Castle would have to find a way to get that sketch when they were through.

Of course, the Orangerie was filled with tourists and visitors, and he quickly took the stairs down. He could feel the cold in his lungs, and he jogged as fast as he dared towards the orange garden, needing to be casual but also pressed for time. When he got to the lower level, the park bench wasn't quite deserted, but Castle sat at the far edge with his coat loose around him, hunched his shoulders as he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. The briefcase was right there and he took one last look around before snagging it.

It was locked, but he worked the thin blade of his knife into the leather behind the mechanism, as quickly as he dared, until the clasp popped free. Castle did the other side and then opened the briefcase, still at his feet, with a swift hand.

Shit.

File folders.

Surely not. The informant couldn't really have brought him _file folders_ to a meeting like this. Beyond stupid to take actual information out of the consulate. Damn stupid-

Ah, yes. Much better.

Castle's fingers had been testing the briefcase's pockets, looking for a hiding place, and then he'd found it. A flash drive in a hidden compartment near the pen holder. Perfect. He palmed the drive, closed the briefcase, shoved it back towards the hedge, and swiftly left the area.

When he made it back to the commotion surrounding Beckett, he made sure to tuck the flash drive into the hidden pocket of his belt - not fancy, not James Bond-worthy, but it would do for now. He stayed at the edges of the crowd, began to slowly, easily work his way up again.

He let the drama go on, Kate goofing off for the sketch artist who was laughing and flirting with her, and he watched as she stood on her tiptoes at the lip of the relfecting pool, her coat open to reveal the deep emerald of her sweater, the narrow hug of her waist. A photographer was calling out to her - tourist or professional, Castle had no idea - and she received instructions in French, clearly understanding only a handful of words.

He waited until she spotted him, impressed by her flawless performance even when she knew the act was no longer necessary, and he stepped up next to the sketch artist as the man finished with a flourish.

"_Combien_?" he asked, gesturing towards the sketch and then to glancing up to Kate with a smile. She was giving him an elaborate and wide smile, tossing her hair with a hand as she stepped back down to the ground.

"_Pour elle, c'est gratuit_." The sketch artist bowed and handed him the drawing with a performance of his own, and the little crowd that had gathered to watch were applauding. Castle bowed back and saw the couple they'd been keeping their eyes on had drifted away, either satisfied with the performance or not spies at all.

Hard to say.

Kate joined him before the artist; Castle could see her flushing pink and pretty in the late afternoon light.

"_Merci, merci_," she was murmuring, allowing the kisses to her cheeks, clasping arms with the artist like they were old friends.

The photographer worried him, but the man had wormed his way into their circle with his camera, showing Kate the images he'd taken. Most were close-ups not of Kate's face, but of the smooth line of her arm blurred by the man's focus on the Palace in the background or the fall of her hair over the reflecting pool.

In fact, as Kate politely admired the man's work, Castle realized not a single photo was of her face. Which was a crime, really, since she was so very gorgeous, but the photographer was an _artiste_, he was into the _postmoderne_ movement, he said.

_Magnifique._

Kate turned back for her bag and slung it over her shoulder, laughing with the artist and the photographer as they all tried to find some common words. Castle kept the sketch in his fingers and Kate lifted the flap of her messenger bag, carefully helped him guide it inside to keep it from getting bent. Her fingers were chilled, her nose and cheeks were red, but she was grinning.

He felt her grip on his elbow in subtle _get me out of here_, and he gently eased them both away from the crowd, calling back _merci_ and hoping to find their path back to the bus.

When they'd managed to put some distance between themselves and the little show still going on back there - the sketch artist was calling for a new model, teasing a blonde woman in crowd of onlookers - Kate leaned her head against his shoulder and gave a long breath of laughter.

"Wow."

He grinned and kissed her temple. "You most definitely are."

"Did you-?"

"Something. Not sure what it is yet. But thank you. You were perfect."

She lifted her chin and met his eyes as if expecting him to be joking, but he wasn't. At all. She was perfect.

Kate pushed up on her toes and kissed him quickly, reached up to rub chapstick from his lips.

"That was exhilarating."

"You're quite good at it. I've never seen you so. . ."

"Stupid?"

"Free," he said, shrugging his shoulders.

So beautifully uninhibited.

* * *

**Stay Tuned**


End file.
